


dreaming with eyes open (redux)

by mintakablue



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bisexual Richie Tozier, College AU, Coming Out, Eddie Kaspbrak Has OCD - Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, F/F, Fix-It, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Mike Hanlon, Gay Stan Uris, Gen, Lesbian Beverly Marsh, M/M, Reddie, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Temporary Amnesia, Trans Female Ben Hanscom, everyone has mental health issues and everyone (except bill) is gay or trans, this is a completely self indulgent fic but i hope y'all enjoy it anyways
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:49:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintakablue/pseuds/mintakablue
Summary: Since his fourteenth birthday, Eddie Kaspbrak feels like he's been dreaming with his eyes open. Now twenty in the summer of 1997, he's decided to take summer classes at the community college--and runs into Richie Tozier, the guy who makes him feel like he's suddenly awake. He just wishes he knew why Richie seemed so familiar.Richie's been in a tough place for the last couple of years, but he's finally starting to get it together (he thinks). When he meets Eddie Kaspbrak, it sort of seems like his whole life has been leading up to this dreamlike moment--even though he feels like it's happened before.Takes place in the It (2017 - 2019) universe. A rebooted version of "dreaming with eyes open" because I wrote that when I was nineteen and now seems like a perfectly good time to revisit it.





	1. Eddie Kaspbrak Changes His Mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! It feels good to be back in the IT fandom after a while away. I hope everyone enjoyed the new movie or is excited to watch it! I wanted to return to this fic because I missed writing the Losers' Club and I missed especially this particular story I never finished with them. There will be horror elements and other dark topics, but I'll always put trigger warnings up here and if you want to read about where to skip them plus other random notes I have about the chapter, they'll be at the end!

_June 1997_

Summer! The long-awaited paradise from school: the end of tedium, of dreariness, of repetition of equations and essays due every other week. Write a transitionary phrase, subtract this or square that—who cares! Who needs that to live life, to toss your worries away and play games, run until you were almost flying, fling yourself to the ground and gaze up at the wide-open sky? Grass-stained sneakers, lemonade, sunshine. These were the facts of life. It was summer, the delicious golden season that stretched out endlessly (but still too short!) before you. Summer was the end of boredom and the beginning of everything else.

Unless you were Eddie Kaspbrak.

This summer promised to be the worst yet in twenty years of living. Classes piled high like the snow on Mount Everest. Freezing his ass off in Derry Community College. And worst yet, having to hide it all from his mother.

He’d never wanted to go through with being a business major; but it was a solid job, a reliable job, a job you could get here in Derry, Eddie sweetie, so just declare yourself a business major and run along to Husson if you won’t go to Derry Business College. But the second you finish school, Eddie, come run back home to mommy. Eddie had tried desperately to go out of state, writing applications to New York and San Francisco and even some nameless little town in Nevada—anywhere but Maine. Anywhere away from his mother. But every letter back was a brief and (after a while) uncomfortably familiar phrase. We regret to inform you that you were not accepted. Welcome to the rest of your life in Maine.

Eddie drifted through his first year, then his second, then his third, unable to take the reins on his own life. Helpless to stop himself from attending class, mechanically reproducing notes on stocks, goods, markets, and other concepts he couldn’t begin to understand. This was nothing new—it was how he got through high school, after all—but now he was an adult and he was supposed to have this all figured out, right?

He would drive for a long time those days, down the black asphalt, aimless but never lost—at least when it came to the road. But what did he want with _his life_? He’d never really considered it. The dim feeling that he wasn’t supposed to have a life chased itself around in his head, a lurking shadow at the corner of his brain. Ever since he turned fourteen, he’d simply floated along, oh we all float down here in Derry, doing whatever he was told. Something vital had been scooped out him on November 4th, 1989 (a birthday hardly anyone attended). Since then, it seemed he’d been dreaming with his eyes open. Watching a film run its spool out slowly to its end, dark and shiny like a road wet with rain.

Thoughts and obsessions and compulsions plagued Eddie like the imaginary illnesses (_that he took pills for anyways_) his mother had inflicted him with. And eventually he couldn’t take it any longer. Every dam must burst.

At the very last moment, the end of fall semester, Junior year, Eddie declared a journalism major.

He had pondered it for a long time, shut up inside his room every night, a cocoon of thought. The things he loved doing, the things he yearned for wordlessly: Travelling! Living! Driving an endless road in search of new people to talk to, new places to explore, to write about! Eddie changed majors to journalism because it was what he wanted, and it had been far too long since he had done something he wanted.

As good as it felt to (in some small way) choose the course of his life, it came with the crushing realization that he had wasted three years of his college career and he was going to have to take summer classes if he wanted to catch up. And God forbid he tell his mother, who would likely die on the spot if she knew that he wasn’t following her perfect plan for him.

“Extracurricular classes?” Sonia Kaspbrak asked, looking up from her nail-painting session from the chair in front of the television.

“Yes, I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. I’ll be right back,” Eddie replied, keys in hand. “They’re so I can graduate faster.”

“Oh, Eddie darling, no need to push yourself to graduate on time! I won’t be disappointed in you if you take another year or two. You can stick around a little longer with your mother.” She smiled graciously as if to say I’m doing this for you, Eddie.

“I don’t want to get left behind,” _Again,_ Eddie thought. “And they’re nearby—just at Derry Community College, so I won’t be far.” He was so used to reassuring his mother that he barely registered the relief that broke across her wide face.

“Be sure to keep your pager on.” She settled back in her chair.

Eddie sighed. “I will. See you later.” He disappeared out the door as fast as he could before his mother could go on about the dangers of driving near the college.

* * *

The parking lot was unusually loud for a college campus at—he checked his watch—9:54 a.m. _That’s six minutes till your first dose, twenty-five minutes till your class._ It’d be no use for him to sit in the car and ponder the gravity of his miserable college career while some asshole with a nasal tone griped at the music majors.

“You’re telling me none of you music majors have even _heard_ of Weezer? Kansas? Come on, not even Smashing Pumpkins? This is great stuff you’re missing out on, people, great stuff!” Whoever was at the center of the circle was practically yelling, making a spectacle of himself.

Eddie, outside of the circle, _as always,_ cleared his throat. “Yeah, idiot. You’re talking to classical music majors who barely know what a radio is. Can you stop yelling?” The tall music major nearest to him narrowed her eyes and left the huddle, finally letting him see—

_Richie Trashmouth Tozier_

Him.

Eddie was overcome with a jolt of familiarity. Like he’d been running through a crowd, frantically searching for someone, till he whirled around to find they’d been beside you all along. It shocked him straight into a moment of clarity and in that moment, he thought to himself—I’m awake. For the first time in a long time, I’m awake. So, let me take a look at the guy who’s done it.

His glasses were thick, that was for sure. Behind panes of glass so thick they were probably bulletproof were brown eyes blinking owlishly right at Eddie. His dark wavy hair stuck up in every direction at once—he’d probably swiped his hand through it and then gave up on looking presentable altogether. His clothes were flashy, possibly to detract from them being wrinkled, and in his hand, he clutched an even flashier notebook that had PROPERTY OF TRASHMOUTH scribbled haphazardly onto it.

“But you agree! These people are out-of-touch, out of class, out of style! So, what kind of music do you like?” He jabbed a finger at Eddie.

“Shouldn’t you know?” He asked irritably, then found himself wondering why this stranger would know his music taste at all. He relented. “I like Elton John. And the blues.”

“Loves the blues!” He crowed. The music majors, sensing an opening, inched their way towards campus. “Can you believe it, this guy loves the blues! And I love rock and roll, so put another dime in that jukebox, Eddie baby! I’m Richie Tozier and I write for Rollicking Rock, your rock and roll zine for the real honest-to-goodness music lover! If you know what’s good for ya, you’ll read it when it comes out twice a month!”

Eddie’s head spun. This Tozier guy sounded just like a radio announcer. And had he said— “Hey, how’d you know my name?”

Richie’s thick eyebrows furrowed underneath the rim of his glasses. “Did I say it? I barely remember what I’m saying once I’ve gone on to the next sentence. Or the next word!” He hopped onto the front of a nearby parked car and leaned back, not a care in the world. “So, what _is_ your name, kiddo?”

For a moment, Eddie considered if it was worth it to stand around and idly chat with a guy he’d basically just met, let alone one who knew his name before he’d even thought about introducing himself. But that familiar feeling he had crept up on him. “Eddie Turner Kaspbrak.” Richie shook it vigorously, then started to pump it up and down like it was the lever on a water pipe. Eddie wrestled his hand away.

“So, Eds, whatcha doing on a fine summer day like this, wasting away in college? What’s got you all chained up here?”

“Don’t call me Eds.” That sentence felt so natural to say, though he was sure no one had called him Eds for a long time. “I’m taking summer classes because I switched my major.”

“Ooh, to what? Sounds fun, a little change of pace.”

Eddie stared down at his old shoes, grass-stained from a better time, now an oddly painful reminder of how many summers he’d lost. “I’d hardly call it little. I switched to journalism. I used to be a business major.”

Instead of poking fun at his _clearly stupid_ choice of major, Richie seemed to perk up. “Hey, hey, I’m a journalist too! I write for my self-published zines.” Richie slouched suddenly, looping his thumbs through his belt hoops and affecting a very bad New York accent. “I got zines like ya wouldn’t believe, baby, zines everywhere.”

He couldn’t help but laugh a little at Richie’s antics and decided that if he had to spend the summer going to classes, at least he’d be with someone exciting. “So, are you taking Journalism I too?”

“Oh, no way man.” It was Richie’s turn to avert his gaze. “I dropped out of this shithole my first semester. I just like to write about things that are actually interesting, y’know. Like movies and music and cryptids and shit.”

Eddie was never good at hiding his emotions—he could practically feel his face fall and he was sure Richie noticed, too. “Oh, I just thought that…” He brushed the brown hair out of his eyes. “Never mind.”

Richie sidled up next to him and slapped him on the back. “Aw, cheer up man. I’m sure you’ll find someone cool to hang with.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then he smirked. “Not as cool as me though.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself.”

“No, come on Eddie, I saw how you looked at me. You interested in—” Richie gestured to himself brazenly, “—all this?” Eddie’s face went red. For having such poor eyesight, Richie really noticed things.

“You’re obnoxious. I just wanted to see who was causing such a big fuss.”

“Well, I’ll be causing a fuss all day. I’m doing a survey on music taste and I’ll be bothering anyone that wants to head out after a long class. Hell, I’ll probably see you after yours.” He winked, which sent a jolt through Eddie again—this time to his heart. He shook it off, _stupid overeager dummy_, and shifted his shoulder bag.

“I guess so.” He searched his memory again for the face that was smiling before him, to no avail. “See you around, Richie.”

“Later, Eddie Spaghetti.” He laughed and called out. “Good one, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eddie grinned a little bit in spite of himself. “But just call me Eddie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie shows up to his classes early because he has time anxiety. He has OCD!!! It's like that! He's also a Scorpio, as I've said before.  
I decided to make Eddie a journalism major mostly because when I first started writing this fic, I just started my journalism minor. Now I'm about to graduate next semester! Funny how time passes. I also thought it tied in neatly with his desire to travel and talk to people and be included in things. Richie writes zines because it's the nineties and he wants to.


	2. Richie Tozier Makes a Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last iteration of this fic had about eleven chapters, I'm guessing these first few will come out fairly quickly! (Or at least I hope. Haha.) My thanks to Lyric, who beta'd this chapter for me!
> 
> TW: Smoking, which really goes for most of this fic.

Cute, cute, cute.

Richie hadn’t thought that about a lot of people and (God forbid) he’d never really thought about saying it seriously to anyone. But it was the first thing he thought when he saw the cocked eyebrow and the pursed (pink, very pink) lips of one Eddie Kaspbrak.

Of course, he hadn’t known his name was Eddie, really, never mind that his middle name was Turner, but he sure was a head-turner, wasn’t he? Unlike Richie, he shot off at the mouth with ferocity, an irritation that Richie found somehow charming because it wasn’t directed at him. It was the voice of a guy who’d stick up for you if you’d let him, even if he’d be pummeled or maybe worse. He was short, clad in a pink polo and khaki shorts that looked like they’d both come straight out of the frat-boy section of the Macy’s. But instead of those obnoxious boating shoes that screamed I’ve got a yacht (Wanna do some kegstands?), he had on worn sneakers, that might have been white once.

His round face (with cheeks you’d just like to pinch—oh, knock it off, Tozier!) and deep brown eyes widened with shock when he saw Richie. The moment couldn’t have lasted longer than two seconds, but Richie felt just like that scene in West Side Story (a movie he couldn’t help but like) where the camera goes blurry and all the people around fade into the black because they just stop mattering anymore. It felt like a dream, a beautiful familiar sort of dream where the person you’ve been waiting for all your life suddenly makes an entrance in an Easter Sunday’s best outfit. Who—

(Eddie Kaspbrak, the man of the hour)

—was this guy? Richie spent the next hour chewing on the end of his pen that was already bitten into misshapen plastic thinking about him. Not pining, _obviously, _just thinking about how he looked like he’d seen him around. He didn’t look Jewish (and Richie could say so, he was Jewish himself) so that was a no on bar mitzvahs unless he was one of Stan’s friends? He was about Richie’s age, maybe a little younger, so they could have been in the same class at some point, especially if he was a Derry native. Richie hemmed and hawed and wasted another hour trying to muster up the courage to give ol’ Stanny a call about something totally stupid.

He hadn’t called Stan for a while, even though they lived so close to each other it was inevitable for them to bump into each other while getting groceries, but they hadn’t talked—really talked—since sometime around junior year of high school. That was when Richie _really_ stopped taking things seriously and Stan did just the opposite. Psh. What a Boy Scout!

But seeing Eddie, thinking of him palling around with Stan—that seemed like déjà vu, a song-and-dance he had done before. Maybe not this particular way, but he had this itchy feeling in the back of his brain like he knew who this guy was already. Or he was _supposed_ to know, but he couldn’t remember.

He couldn’t really remember a lot of things. He jokingly blamed it on getting dropped on his head or something as a baby, but it was a combination of ADHD and a bit of a lazy temperament. Unless it struck him as interesting (video game combos, sightings of UFOs or cryptids, the most recent hits on the radio) he tended to forget all about them. There was a time, though—the fall of 1989, where all his memories from before then kind of went radio static. He had turned fifteen, went into his freshman year of high school, and then he fell on some difficult times. He supposed that was why it all seemed like such a blur.

By the end of senior year, Richie went to community college because that’s what you were supposed to do. But he got miserable. Still alone as ever. High school again, but worse because they were all supposed to be adults and here was Trashmouth Tozier who never quite figured it out. He spent his classes writing stories and doodling in his notebook and decided, to hell with it, he’d try to do something with his gift for gab and fast talk. Radio was out—zines were in. So, he started writing.

Yes, a couple other people got together with him sometimes to chat about writing or do illustrations, but it was never quite the same, never as close as he really wanted it to be. Everything about it felt hollow. Out of place. He was sure there was a puzzle he’d fit in eventually—who wouldn’t want to befriend the guy who was supposed make it Out Of Derry, capital letters intended—but his shitty inattentive brain and his nonstop mouth got in the way. No, he’d never feel comfortable opening up to anyone, he supposed, especially not about any Big Secrets, capital letters double intended.

But Eddie Kaspbrak, he’d felt at ease with instantly. Comfortable enough to admit, even for just a second, that he thought a guy was cute—and that was one of his Big Secrets that he didn’t even let himself in on.

[but he shouldn’t know you thought that he CAN’T know you thought that]

Richie stole a glance at his car’s clock and realized he’d hawed and hemmed himself into 11:34, which meant he had about thirty more minutes to just man up and ring up Stan. Hell, if Stan did know Eddie, they could all hang out, maybe even today, and do some catching up. He idly lit a cigarette with the car’s lighter, then chewed on it for another fifteen minutes. It’d been a while since he’d done any hanging out and that thought was enough. He stubbed out his cigarette on the dashboard, dug around in his glove compartment for quarters, and used the pay phone on campus—no cellphone for anyone in the family but his little sister—to dial Stan.

It rang once, twice, then a polite and deep voice answered, “This is the Uris residence, to whom am I speaking?”

“You tell me.” Richie said in his best Ghostface impression. He cackled wickedly.

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Better work on that one a little more, Richie, or you’ll never get off a good one.” Then, Stan chuckled. “Funny you’re calling me. I was just going to head out and say hi to my old troop. Seems like the gang’s all come back for one last summer, me included.”

“Thought you’d spend your time in Etna forever. Ithaca’s better than Derry, is it?”

“Better than your ugly face.” Stan laughed and this time, Richie laughed along. “But really, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Where are you calling from?”

“Derry Community College.” Richie rolled his eyes. “And no, I’m not attending classes here, I’d rather die than do that. I’m just surveying people. Listen, I saw a dude here that looked kinda familiar and I was hoping we could all get together and have a couple chucks about the good old days, whaddya say?”

Stan clicked his tongue. “What’s his name?”

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”

Abruptly, and seemingly without meaning to, Stan inhaled sharply. “I don’t—I can’t…” He trailed off. “Why can’t I remember who that is?”

So you feel it too, Richie thought, the strange feeling that we’ve all forgotten something dire, something real and maybe realer than any of this stupid adulthood they were all supposed to be going through.

Stan faltered on a sentence a couple times, then settled, suddenly firm again. “Maybe we’d better meet up today after all. Bring Eddie. I’ll see you at the Capitol Theater at 13:30 sharp.” He ended the phone call, maybe to stop himself (or Richie) from saying anything stupid. Richie replaced the phone on the hook and sighed.

“How goes the surveying, buckaroo?” Richie whirled around at the half-Voice that was unmistakably Eddie Kaspbrak trying to sound like a cowboy. “Yeesh, sorry, that was bad. Thought I’d do an impression or something,” Eddie said, back in his quick paced chatter.

“Naw, pardner, it shure as hell was a good shot.” Richie tipped an imaginary ten-gallon, slouched, and spit off to the side, which Eddie immediately recoiled from.

“Ew,” he said, good-naturedly but still with a half grimace. “Anyways, you didn’t answer my question.”

“I forgot to do it.” Eddie quirked an eyebrow amusedly at that response. “I was making a phone call to a pal of mine. I mentioned your name and he said he’d wanna meet up. You free at, uh…” Richie was never good at numbers. “What’s 13:30 in regular time?”

“1:30 p.m. And yes, I’ll be free. These classes are the only thing I’m doing this summer.” Eddie scrunched up his face. “Uh…let me just…” He pulled out a pager from his shoulder bag and punched a message into it.

“While you busy yourself with your _little friend_,” Richie said in his Tony Montana voice, “why don’t I drive us to the Capitol? The theater and arcade, I mean. That’s where he wanted to meet up.”

“Yes, I’d love to take an hour and a half jaunt with you to Augusta.” Eddie replied dryly. “No, I knew you meant the theater. Is that your car?” He tilted his head in the direction of the beat-up Camry that Richie now called his own.

“Sure is. Your carriage awaits.” Richie opened the passenger door (he never locked the doors, but he never kept anything valuable in here either) and gestured with a flourish. Then he smiled mischievously and climbed over the chair into the driver’s side without letting Eddie pass.

“You’re making things harder for yourself.” Eddie snorted. Richie turned the key in the ignition and…nothing.

“Oh, give her a second.” Richie turned the key a couple times, but the car did nothing but shudder, then stop.

Eddie had still not gotten in the car. “God, it smells like smoke in there.” He gave the car a once-over as Richie banged on the dashboard. It didn’t do any good, but Richie occasionally liked to bang on things. Eddie leaned in and picked up the lighter socket from where Richie had tossed it aside, then looked up. “Yeah, Rich, your car’s out of juice. You left all the lights on, including your headlights.” He shook his head (fondly, Richie imagined, then chased the thought out of his head). “I don’t suppose you have any jumper cables.”

Students were now coming out into the parking lot in earnest and Richie flagged down a couple of them to ask after some, but no dice. Fresh out of cables. Richie decided he’d try one more person, maybe not any of the sixteen-year-olds who overachieved and took summer courses for college credit. He fell into step with a tall, broad-shouldered guy wearing a Husson tee. His black curly hair was cut into a flattering fade and his nose was firmly stuck in a Ralph Nader book.

“Cool, cool, love that guy Nader. Any relation to Darth Vader?” From the second Richie opened his mouth, the guy whipped his head around, mouth agape.

“Richie?” A genuine smile broke across his brown face. “I haven’t seen you since—since forever!”

(Oh shit. Do I know this guy?) Richie searched around for a name and came up short. “What’s your uh…what’s your name again?”

This was the second time today (not unusual for Richie) that someone’s face fell because of something he said. “I should’ve guessed. It’s still happening.”

Suddenly, the way he said It sent a shiver down his spine.

Eddie briskly walked up to the two of them, stopped in the walkway. “You’re blocking other people, Richie.” He stopped short. “Oh hey, I go to Husson too.” He peered at the book in the other guy’s hand, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air. “Are you a history major?”

“I am.”

Eddie looked up thoughtfully. “Hanlon…right?” Eddie shook his head. “Or maybe I’m thinking of someone else.”

“Yeah, Mike. Mike Hanlon.” With a fierce sort of tenderness, Mike put a hand on each of their shoulders, forming a triangle. “You’re starting to remember. I think it’s time now, isn’t it? We’re all twenty, so we’re all—!”

A sudden bang broke the triangle, broke the strange and magic spell that had its hold on all of them. A truck in the parking lot’s hood had popped open and smoke was beginning to rise.

“Oh shoot, that’s mine!” Mike hurriedly tucked his book into his backpack and ran towards it, then stopped short and looked back over his shoulder. “Richie, Eddie, don’t forget!”

The two watched his retreating form. “Ah, shit.” Richie sighed. “We didn’t even ask him about the jumper cables.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I introduce Stan and Mike pretty quickly into this one. What can I say? I miss them. And I think they're all canonically the ones who stuck around Derry the longest, so it makes sense that we'd see them too! I like Mike and Stan. Stan dies so early in It and Mike gets really shortchanged by the newest movie, so I thought I should give them both some screentime (readtime?) in this fic.


	3. Eddie Kaspbrak Pays Dearly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Smoking, Eddie has a brief asthma attack.

It was a cramped fit for Richie, long-limbed and gangly, in the front seat, which had never been sat in by anyone before. Whenever Eddie drove people, they always sat in the backseat and Eddie would wordlessly take them where they wanted to go, a cab driver with no salary and no friends to show for it either. Richie had yelled out, “Shotgun!” and crammed himself into the seat like he belonged (with Eddie) in it. Secretly pleased that Richie wanted to sit up front, Eddie whirled his keys around on his finger thrice before turning on the ignition.

“Feet off the dashboard.” Eddie leaned over and pushed Richie’s legs, his eyes still on the road. Derry Community College was a little out of the way—it would take twenty minutes to get back into town proper.

“Oh, come on. I buckled up like you asked! Why’s this car got so many rules?” He threw his hand over his eyes. “I’m _tall_, Eddie, I’m tall. It’s a curse, I know. I wish I was five foot two, like you, so I could fit inside this here vehicle.”

“I’m five foot _four_, thank you.” Eddie huffed. “Just set the chair back already.” Before Eddie had even finished saying it, Richie reclined his chair completely back with a _whump_. He then heard the distinct flick of a lighter. “Hey, do _not_ smoke in here. I’ve got—!” Eddie broke into a coughing fit and rolled down the window to let the smoke (and the nicotine, vile and poisonous) out.

[Better not get cancer, Eddie-bear]

“Crap, sorry.” Richie flicked his cigarette out the window. “Anything I can do to help?” Still coughing, Eddie pointed at his bag, which Richie dutifully unzipped. “Whoa, you got a whole pharmacy in here.” He dug around the bottom of the bag while Eddie pulled off to the side of the road. “Is this what you’re looking for?” In Richie’s grasp was (thank God) Eddie’s inhaler. He snatched it, stuck it in his mouth and pumped it. The camphor mist worked its way down his throat and into his lungs—instead of comforting like it usually was, it tasted a little off.

(Asthma medicine causes cancer nine out of ten times!)

But it did the trick (and pushed away whatever voice was inside). Eddie sucked in some air normally before turning to face Richie, who had put his necklace in his mouth and was pulling the chain in his teeth with a _zzt_. “I’ve got asthma.” He finished lamely. The two of them looked at each other, then burst into laughter.

“No shit! No shit you got asthma! Oh, no, I thought you might need that thing for putting up your ass!” It was a vulgar joke, but it was still funny, especially coming from Richie.

“Yeah, sorry, didn’t think you’d be smoking in my car, fucker,” Eddie punctuated with a grin. “Maybe you’d better shove the cigarette up _your _ass.” The two giggled boyishly for a little longer before it tapered off. Eddie was just about to start the car back up again when—

“Hydroxyzine, huh?” Richie had pulled one of the many orange containers from Eddie’s bag and was examining it.

“Cut the snooping, Tozier.” Eddie said curtly. “I’m not looking through your stuff.”

“Well, you’re supposed to be driving.” Richie rattled the pills around. “I used to take these for my ADHD. Didn’t work super well—I was sleepy all the time.”

“I take it for allergies.” _And for my OCD, I read it helps if you take it, but Mom doesn’t need to know_. “Regularly.”

“Right. Allergies.” Richie seemed to sense Eddie’s lie of omission, but he didn’t say it directly. “You still seem pretty high-strung, not gonna lie. Maybe you’d better switch meds.” Richie started pulling his necklace through his teeth again. “I switched from the good ol’ white pills to uh…what’s it called?” He instinctively reached for the glove compartment—then remembered that this was Eddie’s car, not his. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“I think I forgot my meds in my car.” Richie reached into his back pocket. “Aaaand my wallet, too. Well, that’s nice.”

Eddie’s voice went high with a note of concern. “I’ll drive us back. I wouldn’t want you to miss a dose. Or get stolen from, I guess.”

“I always miss doses, Eddie baby.”

“I don’t know if you should be proud of that?” Eddie signaled to the left and started to make a U-turn.

“Hey, hey, no. We should meet up with my friend ASAP.” Richie looked seriously at Eddie, who made the U-turn regardless because he was in the lane. “He sounded like he really wanted to meet you.” Now, Eddie caught the lie in Richie’s voice, and it should have done a bad job convincing him of anything.

Truth be told, Eddie was a little freaked out. In a little town like Derry, most people did not leave Derry once they or their parents or their parents’ parents settled down. It wasn’t strange for you to run into an old pal from elementary school or middle school and spend a little time catching up…but not like this.

Over the years, Eddie had gotten used to catching the miniscule changes in a person’s voice to hear what they might be thinking. It was the combination of being bullied so many times (you had to know if you should pick a fight with the guy who’d knocked the aspirator from your hand for the fourth time that week) and of having a mother whose worries seemed to leave her on an emotional tightrope at all times. Yes, Eddie could hear how Richie’s thoughts whirred between “sounded like he” and the answer he settled on, “really wanted to meet you.” He heard how Richie nervously began to pull his necklace between his teeth, the _zzt-zzt_ quicker than before. But most of all, he heard how desperately Richie wanted to figure out who he was and how their lives might have fit together before. _How their lives might fit together now._ It was the same urgent need that was making Eddie’s heart beat in his chest to the rhythm of Richie’s nervous tic and the knowing of that scared him. He wanted to take Richie’s forgetfulness as an excuse to send him away and conveniently forget to call, to run away from him and the whole odd situation. That felt like it was the easiest

[the right]

thing to do in a situation like this.

Oh, but the thrum in his chest was too much to ignore.

“Fine.” Eddie relented. “Should we stop by a pharmacy or something? There’s one near the Capitol.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” Richie finally took his necklace out of his mouth. “But if you could spot me for a Diet Coke, I’d be ever so grateful.”

“You know, you really shouldn’t be self-medicating.” _Hypocrite._ “They say diet soda is linked with dementia.”

Richie bonked his head twice with his fist. “Not a death sentence for someone who can barely keep his thoughts straight anyways.” Richie squinted. “Er, keep his thoughts together I mean.” He fell peculiarly silent and stayed that way for the rest of the drive.

* * *

“Wowee, mister, wheredya get all that cash?” Richie said in a sailor-suited-kid-carrying-a-lollipop voice. He had apparently gotten over the awkward quiet that had settled on them in the car and now bounced around while Eddie tried (and failed) to feed his dollar into the vending machine.

“I was an intern at a marketing firm while I was taking classes. It mostly meant I poured people coffee, but they paid me.” Eddie finally got the dollar bill into the vending machine and punched the buttons for a diet Coke, which rattled as it fell to the bottom. “Guess that’s better than nothing. Here’s your soda.”

Richie, still rocking back and forth on his heels, snatched the bottle from Eddie’s hand. “Thank you, darling. Thank you very much.” He pivoted his hips like Elvis as he popped off the top and drank the whole bottle in one go. Eddie’s face flushed again and he hoped Richie didn’t see.

“Do you always do that?”

“Tastes better when you drink it faster.” Richie swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, already seeming a little less erratic. “Whew, sorry about the last two Voices. Haven’t practiced those ones very much.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “You actually spend time practicing those?” The voices that Richie said during any of his jokes,_ and didn’t life just all seem like one big joke to him?_, seemed to leap out, born in the moment and tumbling from his mouth.

“Well, a man’s got to have his craft.” Richie slyly looked at his nails. “Well, go on, isn’t there a Voice you want me to do?”

Eddie surveyed the arcade just to the left of the Capitol’s entrance, where the vending machines had been installed, his eyes landing on Mortal Kombat 3 in the right corner. “You know how to do any impressions from Mortal Kombat?”

Richie grinned. “I’m a Street Fighter man myself, but I know how to play it. Come on, let’s go for a round.”

In Richie’s world, there were a few unalienable truths in this world, and one of them was this—what better way was there to spend the first few days of summer than inside that manic whirling room of color and flashing lights? Like soda and sugar, things that usually made other people hyperactive made him able to focus a little bit better. And when he got into playing a game, he was in the _zone_. Kids around town who aimed for that high score on Rampage and Pac-Man would never in a million years beat RFT: Richie Fuckin’ Tozier.

On the other hand, Eddie was much less inclined towards the arcade. He was always a bookish kid, and the few indulgences he made to video games were mostly forgotten past the age of twelve. “I get the feeling that we’re a little too old for this.” Eddie looked around self-consciously at the elementary and middle schoolers milling around.

“Never too old to rock and roll, baby.” Richie hustled over to the machine and shooed away two kids messing around on the joysticks without putting in any credits.

Eddie picked his way around the crowd of kids newly enjoying their summer allowances by frittering it away. “Aren’t we supposed to be waiting for your friend?”

“Eh, don't worry. You’re even more anal than he is about being on time, we’re here _way_ early.” Richie looked around for the token machine. “Wanna spot me for some tokens?”

“Tozier, you don’t change, do you?” A sandy haired man with a stoic expression leaned against the open doorway. Despite the dourness of his expression, his eyes gleamed with a smile.

“Stanley!” Richie jogged up to him. “Stanley the man-ley, here with a plan-ley!” He put his hand up for a high five, which only earned him a cocked eyebrow. Richie put his hand down. “So what’s cooking, good-looking?”

“Not much. My old troop was nice enough to put off our hangout till tomorrow afternoon, so I’ve got the whole day freed up.” He wrapped an arm around Richie’s shoulder in a loose embrace. “Did you bring Eddie?”

“Oh, you mean my knight in shining armor who’s paying for me today?” Richie swooned and leaned back into Eddie, who struggled to keep him up. “Best friend status revoked, Uris. Eddie Kaspbrak here’s my one and only.”

“Annoying as ever, huh? Feel like I’m in high school again. Maybe I’d better call Bradley up and let him know I _am _available today.”

“Oh, Boy Scouts my ass, you just don’t appreciate the gift of my presence.” Richie lowered his glasses pseudo-seductively, then nearly dropped them.

That got a laugh out of Stan. “Eagle Scout takes a long time to get to, Richie, and it looks good on an application—unlike a recommendation letter from you.”

Richie readjusted his glasses and pointed accusingly, still leaning against an indignant Eddie. “I wrote that from the heart!”

“Well, I didn’t send it.” The two of them chuckled as Eddie finally managed to push Richie off of him and Richie’s gangly limbs tumbled to the floor.

“Asshole, you’re too heavy!” Red spots of color flamed on his cheeks and he cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m Eddie Kaspbrak. But you probably knew that already.”

Stan shook his hand firmly, searching Eddie’s face intensely for a split second before dropping his gaze to Richie, who had laid himself on the neon carpet pathetically. “Nice to meet you all the same. Sorry about Richie. He got dropped on his head as a baby so he’s practically feral.” He chuckled to himself quietly, probably used to making his own private jokes. “Hope you’re not weirded out by the sudden invitation. I wanted us to meet up and figure out where we all know each other from. Do you go to Ithaca?”

Eddie shook his head. “Husson. Did you go to Derry High School?”

“I did, but our graduating class is huge. I assume we’re all the same age?” Stan surveyed the two of them. “Even if we don’t all act it.” Richie was now face down on the carpet. Eddie and Stan shared a shudder at how unsanitary it probably was.

“Oh my goddd, can we PLEASE just play Mortal Kombat and talk about this later?” Richie flipped over to face them. “Eddie’s paying.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Just because I’d pay for you doesn’t mean you can just go offering up _my_ money to everyone.” He turned to face Stan, whose face continued to swim in and out recognition. “But if you really wanna play, I’ll pay for it.” A small but genuine smile crept up on Eddie’s face without him realizing it, and Stan beamed back.

“Seriously, Richie? Forgot your wallet again?” Stan hauled Richie up. “This is the eighteenth time. I keep count, you know.” He pulled out a utilitarian cash clip with a small bird that Eddie couldn’t identify engraved on it. “I’ll pay, no worries. I’m the one that called us all here anyways.”

They chatted idly while Richie sat in a racing game’s seat and scribbled into his notebook. Eddie tried again to place Stan’s face in his memory and found it mildly easier than trying to find Richie. “Uh, you got the award for Civic Responsibility in sophomore year, right?”

Stan nodded. “Yeah, the principal wanted to make a big deal of it. Show everyone that we’re not just a couple of degenerates.” It was another joke that Eddie did not seem to quite get the punchline to, even as Stan’s mouth quirked up into a smile. “I guess I’m still trying to figure out how I know you.” Coins jingled their way to the bottom of the exchange machine. “Guess we’ll see over a game of MK3.”

Eddie was, unfortunately, not very good. Richie crowed with laughter behind his notebook. “I could beat Stan with my glasses off! What are you _doing_, Kaspbrak?” Eddie mashed at the buttons as Stan methodically tapped a combo out that finished Liu Kang off for good.

Exasperated, Eddie threw his hands in the air. “You know what, I think this—these buttons must be broken.”

Stan nudged him. “Don’t be a sore loser, man.” His eyes trailed over to Richie, who suddenly had nothing to say, staring at Eddie’s palm. “Rich, what’s up?”

Eddie hurriedly took a look at his own hand. He was sure, so sure, that when he took his pills this morning all lined up in his hand like a dull rainbow that there was no scar, and yet there it was. A thin white line slashed its way unevenly across his palm, a stranger on his body.

Richie had moved to studying his own palm. “Stan, hold out your hand.”

“What, you’re gonna read my palm with your shit vision?” Stan relented though, his arm straight and strong as he extended it.

Richie grabbed Eddie’s hand and brought his and Stan’s together, examining them closely from underneath thick glass. There was an uncomfortable silence and Eddie tensed.

“Just make the joke already, Richie.” He said, his mouth twisting into an uncomfortable smile.

“No joke here, bud.” Unfurling his hand between theirs, the same scar, no longer a stranger among company, bloomed into view. “I got a question for you two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning notes:  
Smoking, Eddie has a brief asthma attack - This scene happens in the beginning of the fic and happens after the line, "Just set the chair back already." You can skip to the line "Hydroxyzine, huh?" and not miss anything.
> 
> This chapter I just decided to mash the old chapter 3 and 4 together, especially because the old chapters were pretty short in comparison. We also get Richie and Eddie talking about their mental problems, if only briefly. Richie got diagnosed with ADHD back in high school, while Eddie has never been to see a therapist, although he probably should. If it's not clear already, this fic is gonna talk A LOT about those kinds of issues, but everything will turn out alright in the end, I promise!
> 
> In other news, I decided not to put Street Fighter and opted for Mortal Kombat. I thought it might be a little too much to put the exact same game that Richie played frequently in IT. Plus the Mortal Kombat lines are perhaps more iconic than those in Street Fighter, but that is a personal opinion.


	4. Stanley Uris Makes a Connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful Lyric! The last chapter was also beta'd, which, if you go back and read it, you'll notice some minor changes that Lyric helped me with too!
> 
> TW: Blood/injury, mentions of self-harm, and horror elements.

Stanley Uris was an even-tempered man. Everyone knew this, from his parents to his ex-girlfriend Patty, he was a guy who kept things running smoothly. It was what had made him a “pleasure to have in class” all through middle school and the expected valedictorian of Etna’s class of 1998. You didn’t have to sweat the small or the large stuff with Stan the Man, who’d watch over everyone with a wry smile and pick up any pieces that people had left behind. No sir, Stan wouldn’t be the weak link. Not anymore.

But a panic was starting to set all around his heart, cold and unrelenting.

Scars—yes, Stan had a few. A spill down the stairs, a poison ivy rash that he itched too much, one particularly bad gash on his arm from a bird whose nest he had disturbed. None had seemed of any interest until he had Richie staring intently at the matching scars on all of their hands; a scar that Stan was sure he hadn’t had until today. But Stan had never been the kind to overreact to a situation. Or at least, that was what he had tried to convince everyone, and he had done pretty well so far. All he did was squint, turn his head one way, then the other. “Weird. They look pretty similar.”

Eddie’s eyes flitted tensely from Richie to Stan and back again. “So…what? Just a coincidence. Dumb luck or whatever.” He had started to massage his temples with his other hand. The one with the scar was still held near the others, as if kept there by some force. “I can feel a migraine coming on.”

The serious expression didn’t leave Richie’s face. It was, perhaps, the most serious Richie had ever looked in all the time Stan had known him. “Where did you get your scars?” He started to fumble with his necklace as his eyes met Stan’s. In it was reflected the same helpless knowledge that Stan had, a realization growing heavy in his stomach. _ I don’t know where it’s from, Stan, but why the hell have we all got it? Why you and me? Why Eddie? And why is looking at it giving us all a sense of dread—that we’ve forgotten the most important thing in our lives? _

Why indeed? Stan forced himself to take two calm breaths, willing away the pit that was being dug in his stomach. He was dimly aware that their game had been left unattended. Compose yourself, Stan. They’re just scars. When your childhood best friend freaks out, you of all the people here have to stay calm.

On the other hand, Eddie seemed to be veering near a panic attack, his hand now tapping a shaky three-beat rhythm on his thigh. “I’m seeing things.” He blinked hard as if to prove it to himself, but it did not disappear. (Stan blinked rapidly himself to test it.) “We’re all seeing things. I can’t—I’m actually honestly going crazy, aren’t I? It wasn’t here before, I swear it wasn’t.”

Stan ignored the (very real) possibility that they were going crazy and instead began to think of an explanation. He always thought of his mind as filing cabinets, a long row of organized and methodical drawers. He could open one up, seek a logical conclusion, and if the answer didn’t crop up, it would somewhere else. That was the way he’d gotten through biology exams about phylogenies and evolution and—focus, Uris, come on.

If they all had the same scars, they were probably all doing the same activity. What would a couple of people their age have done that would have left a scar like that? Bicycle race gone wrong wouldn’t have left such a small scar. Sports based injury was out—Richie had always skipped out on P.E. and the high whistling that Eddie’s breathing produced struck that option as well. Woodshop? No. The scar wasn’t uniform enough for those blades, let alone deep enough. He racked his brain again, searching through those files.

“I—I can’t b-buh-breathe.” Eddie gasped and pulled away, groping for his inhaler. It seemed to slip out of his shaking grasp, and he stuttered curses under his breath.

There is no accurate way to describe how a memory might come back to you, as it might come back in any number of ways. Slow like water rising in a bathtub. Sharp, like a sliced finger on a razor blade. But if Stan were to describe how this particular memory came back, he would liken it to being slammed by the unexpected opening of one of his file cabinets—one he hadn’t thought about in years and years. He saw himself in that memory, his face wrapped up in gauze, maybe recovering from a dog attack or something. Like in a dream, in your body but watching at the same time, this other Stanley Uris picked up a Coke bottle fragment, shining clear in the afternoon sun. The faces of the other’s surrounding him and another boy, whose hair was auburn in that same sun, were like fishes swimming indistinct in murky water. One moment, Richie’s glasses loomed out of the blue. The next figures, a girl with freckles scattered across her cheeks, a kid with a soft smile and wispy hair, dark deep eyes that he had gazed into for a moment, and then Eddie’s face, much younger, fell back into the black. He saw as his child hands held the other boy’s, carefully drawing a thin red line down with the sharp tip. He heard the boy hiss in surprise, heard himself as he handed the fragment over, saying “----, you do the rest of us. You’re the leader, after all.” Saw the gentle curve of this boy’s hand around that glass piece, not even wincing as he took it with the bleeding one, the scarlet already filling his open palm. His voice had no pain as he whispered softly, “A-ah-all-alright Stan. Stan the mm-m-man.” And he sliced Stan’s hand open.

Stanley Uris was not the kind of man who wept in front of others. It was not that he didn’t think it appropriate for a man to cry or that he saw any weakness in it. Any tears he may have shed were always in private—he was never the type to publicly express his feelings unless he felt that someone else perhaps might benefit from it. But as he returned from the memory that had punched its way to the surface, he felt a tear slip from his eye. It was soon followed by others, streaking down his face like a rainstorm that seemed to swell forth from the ghost of his past. Richie looked positively astonished, his mouth forming a small “o” that only grew wider as Eddie let out a small, hitching sob.

Then all at once, Stan jammed his hand back in his pocket, quite suddenly. Eddie swiped at his eyes, embarrassed and looking like a vulnerable child. Richie jumped, as if electrically shocked, and his hand skittered to his backpack straps to fiddle with them.

“We were all together when we got these scars.” Stan said in a low voice, not quite sure of where the certainty in his voice had come from. There was so much gravity in that statement, it was a moment before anyone responded.

“How?” Eddie’s voice wasn’t doubtful. It was filled with both curiosity and trepidation.

“I don’t know who else was there. It’s supposed to be seven of us. But I cut his hand with a piece of a Coke bottle. He cut mine too—all of ours.” Stan thumbed the scar, shivering as the twinge of pain seeped through his memories and into his nerves.

“Kind of an asshole move.” Richie laughed once, a short sharp bark that was his way of trying to lighten the situation. When it failed to bring levity, he bit his lip instead.

“No, no. We wanted to do it. It was a pact of some kind. A promise.” Stan tried to keep his voice steady, couldn’t quite keep the waver out of it. “I can’t even remember his face. I can’t even remember why we were doing it.” He exhaled. He needed to be stronger than this bone-deep fear. He needed to find the solution and he thought he knew just where to find it. “I’m going to look through my old yearbooks or something. I need to know, I need to—!”

Before he could quite walk away, he felt his mouth saying something he hadn’t even thought.

[Three’s a magic number, but it’s not quite enough.]

He barely knew where the sentence started before it had finished, felt his thoughts whirl wildly around as he tried to find its source. Eddie’s hand found its way to Richie’s shirtsleeve and clung there, desperately looking for support. Stan wished he had someone to hold onto—it felt like he was slipping away, distantly, the world turning sideways on its axis.

“I’ll…I’ll see you guys later.” In fear of his mouth, of the memories, of what might happen next if he stayed there, Stan strode out of the theater. Once he knew he was out of sight, he broke into a run and did not stop running until he found himself home again, jiggety-jog, home again.

* * *

“Your old yearbooks? I’m sure your father put them in the garage.” Stan’s mother handed him another dish to dry. He had burst through the doorway, breezily told her that he had come home from a jog, and immediately drank a full glass of water to steady his nerves. Then he had busied himself with chores to stave off the shivers that still remained. His mother apparently did not see the scar on his hand as he opened his palm for another dish. She did see the faint traces of them on his wrists and her gaze lingered on them. “You haven’t looked through those books in ages, Stanley. Are you alright?” She put a hand gently on his face. “I know that being back home can be hard for you. Thank you for coming back to see us.”

He smiled softly and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. “I’m okay, Mom. Really, I am.” He dried the last dish and placed it back in the cupboard with a little _clink_. “I’m gonna go take a look. I’ll help with dinner in just a second.”

The yearbooks weren’t hard to find—they were labelled in his mother’s delicate but precise handwriting as Stanley’s Schoolthings, 1990 – 1994. They were stacked in reverse order, so Stanley removed the top layer (his old Casio calculator, a binder of volunteer hours he documented, his drafts of college applications) and pulled out the Derry Highschool Yearbook, 1990.

He’d been so young, it seemed, when these pictures were taken! He smiled privately, as usual, at his wild curls of hair, the slit he’d shaved into his eyebrow, the leather jacket he wore once for the Spring Fling dance and then donated the next day.

_Return of the Spring Fling Dance!_ the page seemed to scream up at him in bright pinks and greens. On the background of blurry, dancing teenagers was a small box of white text.

_ After the cancellation of the Pumpkin Ball in October 1998 and the curfew imposed in January of 1989, it did not bode well for the Spring Fling dance. But by the end of summer in 1989, the curfew was _ finally _ lifted! Henry Bowers’ arrest ended the year of fear, and our dance came back into full bloom! _

It was a grim reminder of the fear that had pervaded their small town back before he’d even attended DHS—wrapped into a triumphantly cheerful little corner of the yearbook. As he flipped through, it seemed that the year prior was just a bad dream, a smudge on an otherwise cloudless existence.

But Bowers and his gang weren’t the reason why Stan was flipping through the yearbook. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought hard. The other boy’s name was four letters, and if he concentrated, he could figure out what letters it were—but they continued to float just out of reach.

“S-S-Stan.” He heard in his head again. Stuttering…Boyd? Brad? Barr? It started with a B, he was sure, but there were so many kids that had names that started with that letter. He stopped short, staring down the line of faces at the end of the page. Tozier and Uris. Their last names were close enough that they were on the same line, but Richie’s face was undeniably blurred. If he didn’t focus, Richie’s name seemed to fade right off the page.

He had a faint inkling in his brain of what might happen if he flipped to the K’s. There, where Eddie’s young face should have sat, between Levi Kappel and the Katz twins, was what looked like a misprint. His face was only half visible through an ink blotch. He opened the books for 1991 through 1994. Each year, Richie’s face grew blurrier until it looked like coffee stain on the page. Each year, Eddie’s face disappeared until finally, it was scratched out entirely.

Though the garage was hot in the summer, Stanley’s forehead was covered in a cold sweat. And though he thought to himself that he would put away all of this entirely and start chopping carrots for dinner, his mind procured one more thought that he was helpless to resist.

Denbrough.

Slowly, he reached for the 1990 book, his hand trembling. And when he turned the page to the D’s, he gazed in a numb and mindless horror that seemed to fill his whole body. There was no ---- Denbrough—there was no boy in the portrait at all. Instead, a woman with a long face, blank eyes, and a flute perched in her spidery pale hands stared up at him with blank eyes. He recognized her from his days studying the Torah in preparation for his Bar Mitzvah. The painting in the upper room, the one that used to terrify him beyond belief. He felt that same childish terror as her mouth impossibly began to open. Began to grin with fangs a mile long. Her lips peeled back and split to reveal more sharp points, some of which began to writhe and wriggle, their points seeming to stab out of the book. Stanley jerked back and the pages closed with a thump. He nearly stumbled over himself as he fled the garage.

A blast of cool air hit his face as he slammed the door, hopefully blocking out whatever that nightmare woman was. “Stanley, what’s wrong?”

Control your emotions, Stan. Your mother can’t know what’s wrong or she’ll worry, and you don’t want to upset her. He swiped at his sweating forehead and felt the phantom pain of teeth sliding into his face.

“Nothing, Mom. Just some memories. That’s all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning notes:
> 
> Blood/injury – The first half of this chapter has Stan thinking about what ways the three of them could have gotten a scar and some brief descriptions of injuries happen after the line, “What would a couple of people their age have done that would have left a scar like that?” The scene where the Losers’ Club makes a blood pact happens after the line, “It seemed to slip out of his shaking grasp, and he stuttered curses under his breath.” Stan remembers being attacked by the lady in the portrait and describes the injury after the line, “Your mother can’t know what’s wrong or she’ll worry, and you don’t want to upset her.”
> 
> Self-harm – There are two references to self-harm. One is a vague reference to Stan’s death in the book in the scene where the Losers’ Club makes a blood pact and the other comes after the line, “His mother apparently did not see the scar on his hand as he opened his palm for another dish. You can skip to the next paragraph and not miss anything.
> 
> Horror elements – The scene with Stanley in the garage begins to feature horror elements after the line, “If he didn’t focus, Richie’s name seemed to fade right off the page.” You can skip to the line, “A blast of cool air hit his face as he slammed the door, hopefully blocking out whatever that nightmare woman was.” Scene summary: Stan flips through the yearbooks and sees that Eddie and Richie’s faces are both blurred/blocked out. Stan remembers the name Denbrough, but instead of seeing Bill’s face, he sees the woman from the portrait (It: Chapter 1). He slams the book closed and runs inside.
> 
> Poor Stan! He’s the first one to get treated to some horror elements, which I’ll get to for our other boys in just a second.
> 
> I think there’s a very romantic bent to the way that I’m describing Bill and honestly? It’s because all of the Losers’ Club was in love with him in one way or another. Obviously that’s because Stephen King’s self-insert is Bill, but I choose to believe it’s also because Bill is a good person who brings everyone together.


	5. Richie Tozier Has a Vision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Smoking, homophobia. This one’s pretty heavy, so please check the detailed notes if you want to skip the scene.

Eddie had decided to drive the two of them back to his house, while Richie pocketed the quarters still lined up on Mortal Kombat (to give _back_ to Stan later, definitely not just making the most of a financial opportunity.) He had seemed pretty shaken up by what had happened with Stan, so being the gentleman that he was, Richie tried to cheer him up.

“Guvnor, I say, your face is all sorts of frowny-wowny!” Richie exclaimed. Eddie’s fingers had begun to drum on the steering wheel, _onetwothree onetwothree_, a near maddening triplet that just wouldn’t stop. Eddie had seemed not to hear Richie at all (not that he minded, it was a bad attempt at his newest character, Chappie Ronald.) He tried another comment, this time in his regular voice. “Uh, you feeling okay, dude?” Eddie’s hand continued to fidget, so Richie simply leaned over and put his hand over Eddie’s.

Eddie’s eyes shot to Richie’s hand, but he visibly relaxed. “I…uh…sorry. I just do that sometimes.”

“It’s okay. Nervous habit, right?” Richie, in spite of himself, started to draw little circles on the back of Eddie’s hand. He felt his heart start to quicken but he managed to say, “I used to have a friend who’d do that. He would sweat fucking buckets, too.” He chuckled. “But if you just sort of distracted him like this, it wouldn’t be so bad after a while. I think he just got in his own head about things.” He swallowed hard, then drew his hand away, abruptly aware that Eddie’s was now gripping the steering wheel tightly. “I used to be the only one who’d see that he was doing it. I don’t think anyone else bothered to pay attention to it.”

He stole a sidelong glance at Eddie, whose gaze quickly returned to the road. “That’s nice,” Eddie said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Richie cleared his throat. “I guess if people don’t pay attention much, it’s a nice thing.” He smiled, sort of helplessly. “It’s nice when people notice those kinds of things.”

The two of them jumped as Eddie’s pager beeped two strident notes. He pulled it off and glanced at it. Richie just caught the end of the sentence, “SAID YOU’D BE BACK SOON.” He snickered. “That your mom?”

“Yes, it just so happens to be her.”

“Is she hot?”

“I refuse to discuss that.” Eddie’s face remained stoic, but the tips of his ears were red.

“Am I gonna get to see her?” Richie giggled, fluttering his eyelashes. “Am I going to fall madly in love with her? You can start calling me Pops now, Eddie, I think I’ll sweep her off her feet.”

“Ew.” Eddie’s nose wrinkled. “I do  _ not _ want any part of your psychosexual fantasies.” He parked the car expertly in the driveway of his house. “Now, if you don’t mind, we’re going to quietly go through the front door and get into the garage that way.”

“May I ask why we’re not just, you know, opening the garage?” Richie pointed at the remote opener sitting in the cupholder. “Just kinda seems easier.”

Eddie flushed, and Richie was starting to grow fond of the way he chewed his bottom lip when he was embarrassed. “Well, she’s probably taking her afternoon nap and I don’t wanna bother her.”

“Aw, sweet little Eddie cares about his momma! Ain’t you just a peach, a Georgia peach!” Richie squawked. Eddie socked him in the shoulder.

“Would you shut up?” He said, but his mouth curved into a smile at Richie’s joke. (Richie was spending an awful lot of time looking at Eddie’s lips and he  _ really _ needed to cut that out.)

* * *

­­  Eddie’s house was not as neat as Richie had envisioned. There were snacks strewn on the kitchen table along with some of Eddie’s old textbooks, a hall closet that was color-coded, a side table with pictures of Eddie from elementary school (one of which Richie snagged to tease Eddie about in a second.) For some reason, he expected the house to look a little bit like a hospital. Certainly, the kitchen shelves did. Eddie’s mom must have left them open, exposing an array of medicines like acarbose, chlorthalidone, metformin, propranolol (sounds like a twisted version of Mambo No. 5, a little bit of metformin in my life…) He glanced to the other side to see Eddie’s mother, snoring gently away in the chair in front of the television. She seemed to be on break from work and her nose waggled as she adjusted herself. Derry’s own Sleeping Beauty, Richie thought to himself, and then had to hold his sides to not burst out in laughter. Eddie shot him a look and continued to tiptoe to the garage.

After Eddie had gently shut the door to the garage, he scoffed at Richie’s delighted expression. “What are you laughing about now?”

“Call her Derry’s own Sleeping Beauty! The Czarina of Slumber! The Lady of Lethargy! The Princess of—” Eddie shoved Richie lightly.

“You are _so_ loud.” He began to busy himself with the search for jumper cables in the lower boxes on a shelf. Four streets away, Stanley Uris was just beginning to open his box of schoolthings. Richie meanwhile leaned against the doorframe and looked at young Eddie’s face.

It was a cheerful little picture, Eddie smiling brightly next to a new bicycle in another iteration of the house Richie was now mucking around in. The front door was less banged up around the frame, the coat of paint on the exterior walls looked fresher, and he could almost swear he smelled the small pink flowers blooming on the tree in the photograph. Some of the petals had landed in young Eddie’s hair and he didn’t seem to have noticed, his little hands wrapped around the handlebars and his cheeks rounded with a gigantic smile. (Cute kid. Grew up even cuter.)

“What did you say?” For a second, Richie thought he’d spoken his thoughts aloud—Lord knew how often that happened to him—but he stayed silent anyways. Sometimes, if you were lucky, people would think they just imagined you said something. Then, Eddie turned around, very slowly, and Richie could suddenly hear an alarm ringing in his head: Danger! Don’t turn around! Do not pass go!

Eddie’s deep brown eyes were shot through with gold. No, not gold, Richie realized, but an animal yellow, the eyes of one that was stalking its prey. [Oh, but you’re the predator, aren’t you, Richie?] His mouth curled up lopsided, only one side of it moving as he said, [Keep your dirty little secret locked away and in your pants! Everyone _knows_ gay men are predators. So quit looking at that picture of me!] Eddie was close enough now to swat the picture from Richie’s hand, shattering it and releasing the sound of high laughter, the laughter of the young Eddie in the photograph that now lay at his feet. Richie froze in fear, the lump in his throat growing larger. He shouldn’t have touched Eddie’s hand earlier, he shouldn’t have been looking at him, he knows, he knows, he wished he didn’t, but he can’t help but be a freak who falls in love with other boys, can he? He can’t—

“—chie? Richie?” Eddie was gripping his shoulder _hard_ and shaking him. He blinked twice and stared into Eddie’s (thank God, thank you God, no yellow in them at all) brown eyes, which were wide with concern. “You passed out—or I thought you did—your eyes went all unfocused. I thought it was the heat or you had a stroke or an aneurysm, I thought it was my fault somehow.” Eddie babbled, then cut himself short. As he stepped back slightly, broken glass tinkled under his feet. “What the…”

“Sorry.” Richie mumbled, still disoriented. “I was looking at the, uh, the picture of you.” He knelt, nudging aside the glass carefully and retrieving the picture from the ruined frame. “I didn’t mean to break it.”

Eddie didn’t seem to care. “You don’t look so good, Rich. You’re sweating.” His brows furrowed with anxiety. He leaned forward to touch Richie’s forehead—Richie jerked back as if he’d been burned. His face _was _burning, with a mixture of shame, guilt, and disgust with himself. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I just…did you find the jumper cables?” Richie took off his glasses and closed his eyes. “I think I’d better go back to my car.”

Eddie hurriedly brought them to him. “We don’t need to go right away. I don’t mind waking up my mom, I’ll get you a glass of water and you can sit down or something.” Richie pushed him away again.

“No, no, it’s cool. I could probably even just walk home.” He shoved his hands in his pockets so Eddie wouldn’t see how badly they were shaking. “Later, Eddie.” His legs felt like they were going to collapse beneath him, but he had to get away somehow, had to stop Eddie from finding out.

“Richie, stop it.” Eddie’s voice had been shaking, but he seemed to have stopped it on his own. “You look sick and frankly, you freaked me the hell out just a second ago by going completely unresponsive. You’re in no shape for driving and especially not walking around. I can see you apparently don’t want to be around me right now but let me at least drive you home.” He tossed the jumper cables to Richie and then held out his pager. “Put your number in here. You don’t have to return the cables to me right away, but just… page me when you get the chance to give them back.” Richie closed his eyes again and nodded.

“Okay. I will.”

* * *

Richie collapsed onto his own bed and just lay there, staring beyond the Nirvana and Smashing Pumpkins posters, past his CD shelf piled high with Queen and Kansas, and sighed deeply. He didn’t want Eddie to think he hated him—of course, it was quite the opposite, but Richie just couldn’t face the idea that anyone would _know_ that about him.

For as long as he could remember (usually not long at all, but this was one of the few exceptions), Richie knew he was different. Most of his childhood crushes, the ones that eventually awaken you to real love, were girls. But he couldn’t help but think of them as pretty in a boyish way or think of them as one of the guys. When it came to the exception, of which he faintly recalled there were only two, he remembered thinking of what other boys talked about when it came to girls: their hair, their lips, their eyelashes. He thought he’d just admired these boys or enjoyed hanging out with them, but when he came to comprehend his own infatuation, he couldn’t help but feel a note of panic—one that made him hyperaware of every action he did while around other them. He’d been brave once, but that bravery seemed to have dissipated with age and time in a homophobic town. He tried very hard to shake off those thoughts, but it was nigh impossible, having grown up in the eighties. So instead, he decided to stop thinking _other _thoughts as long as he was able to hold them off. And he was doing so well until now.

Richie sighed again and pushed the sheets off his bed, letting them join the collection of shirts and jeans that he had thrown on the floor, along with some papers he had meant to pick up at some point. He snatched up his Powerbook from the top of his guitar amp, which was pushed up against the bed, and popped it open. No new messages from anyone on his messenger and no new e-mails from anyone worth talking to. Though Richie’s walls were plastered with posters, there was a blank space where, if he’d spent more time with other kids growing up, there would have been photos. Instead, the only thing occupying even a fraction of that space was a small photograph of Stan and Richie goofing off somewhere in the Barrens. It was before Richie had gotten his growth spurt, so Stan still had a good three inches on Richie and had him in a headlock. The picture was blurry and the two of them grinned—beyond the camera, to the person taking the photo.

Who had taken this photo? Richie could barely see it in his mind’s eye. He bounded over the bed and snatched it up, peering closely at the Polaroid in question. He should have had enough of looking at old pictures, but if there was one thing Richie could do, it was take a licking and keep on ticking. When he flipped it over, he saw Stan’s cramped handwriting next to his own, a huge R followed by nearly illegible scrawl. Just like the scar on his hand, Richie blinked, and another name appeared in the upper left corner, carefully printed in black marker.

_ taken by Mike Hanlon, 1989 _

Richie sank into his desk chair, surely wrinkling the pile of clothes he had left for himself there. So many coincidences in one day—and what made today so special, anyhow? First Eddie, then Mike, then even his childhood best friend seemed to be linked in some enormous way that eluded Richie’s vision. He took off his glasses and covered his eyes with his hand. Sometimes he thought better when there wasn’t so much for him to look at, when his brain wasn’t jumping to every little detail he noticed. There were others, Stan had said, but who? The details of their life: their names, their ages, what street they lived on—Richie could not hold on to those, but he knew he had an uncanny recall for details when he least expected it, especially for faces.

A bright flash of auburn hair burned its way through the darkness accompanied by the smell of smoke. Richie felt no danger as she turned her head to look at him, her eyes a brilliant and striking icy blue, though there was a warmth there that seemed to emanate from every part of her. Even her freckles were the rays of sunlight that come through the shadows of the leaves. Her grin was radiant, cheeky as it was. She said her name once, but it floated away from him like bubbles full of sound float above you underwater. She lit a cigarette, put it between her teeth, then as she pulled it away, she said two clear words. “Want one?”

Hell yeah, he did. It had been a long day. Richie opened his eyes, suddenly glad that his parents and his sister were not home, and with shaking hands, clamped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it up, thinking of the girl’s hair as the flame on the match burned down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning notes:
> 
> Smoking: In the last two paragraphs, Richie has a vision of Beverly, who offers him a cigarette. Richie then smokes a cigarette to calm his nerves.
> 
> Homophobia: This chapter deals with Richie’s internalized homophobia which comes to a head when he looks at a picture of young Eddie. To skip the scene where Richie hears his greatest fears about being gay, skip from the line, “(Cute kid. Grew up even cuter.)” to the line “—chie? Richie?” Another section that deals with this, though to a lesser extent than the scene with a vision of Eddie, starts with the line, “For as long as he could remember…”
> 
> Scene summary if you want to know what happened with the vision of Eddie: Richie sees Eddie with yellow eyes, who tells him to stop looking at his elementary school picture because “gay men are predatory.” (one of Richie’s biggest fears since he grew up in the AIDS crisis.) Richie drops the picture and Eddie and the picture both laugh at him.
> 
> This chapter gets really heavy for a bit there. I knew after I watched It: Chapter 2 that I wanted to continue to work out what that meant for Richie’s fears and how he would overcome them. Like I said, no one dies and ultimately this is a happy fic…but the Losers have to deal with their trauma and that can be difficult.


	6. Eddie Kaspbrak Gets a Talking-To

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Gaslighting, horror elements, discussion of mental illness.

When Richie got out of the car, Eddie just drove. He didn’t listen to the radio or the Honky Chateau CD he kept in the player. He even forgot to retrieve the refills of medicine his mother paged him for. The whole day had felt alien and bizarre—all he had to go off of was Richie’s hollow, “We’ll make a better day of it tomorrow.” Then he’d left, hands balled into fists, no joke to show for it. It was at least an hour of restless driving before Eddie had even thought to go home.

Eddie pushed open the door of his house, mutely toeing off his shoes and closing the door softly behind him. He didn’t even think of his mother, only of laying down on his bed, until he heard her voice from the kitchen table.

“Eddie-bear, where were you? I was worried sick.” He froze, like a hare caught in the gaze of a hawk. “Come on in, Eddie and talk to your mother.” Her voice was wavering with anxiety, one that spread like a fishnet and caught Eddie’s heart, reeling him stiffly into the kitchen.

She sat with her fingernails steepled, freshly painted and shining wetly. Her small eyes stayed trained on Eddie as he pulled out a chair and sat across from her. He kept his eyes downward, into the red and white checkered tablecloth. “Hi, Mom.” He tried very hard to keep his voice even and casual. “How was work?”

“You didn’t answer my question. Where were you and why were you late?” She had never hit him ( _ of course she wouldn’t, she’s my mother _ ), but he flinched away as her nails began to drum on the tabletop. Her topaz ring that she wore on her pinky snatched at the light, gleaming as it went up and down and up again. “Didn’t get our medicine, either.”

“I just…lost track of time.” Eddie winced as her fingernails stopped their clacking, then resumed again. He closed his hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“Not with that watch you didn’t.” As if to incriminate him, his watch beeped—an alarm to take his medication. “Why do you have to lie to your mother, Eddie? You know you’re all I have.” A tear grew at the corner of her eye and slipped down her face, even as the rhythm of her fingers hitting the table continued. Eddie’s brain could do nothing but focus on the faint yellow stain on one corner. The twisting guilt in his stomach rose like bile. Talking to his mother felt so often like when a teacher that reprimanded you in front of the whole class. When you didn’t know what the right answer was, so you guessed, and it was horribly, utterly incorrect. The silence that ensued was always darkly judgmental, and that was Sonia now, tears slipping down her face, both irritated and pathetic with worry.

“I’m sorry.” He blurted out. “Really sorry. I was just hanging out with some classmates and I meant to tell you I’d be out later, but I guess it just slipped my mind.”  _ Halfway between a lie and the truth, which is where all your answers live now. _

“Why’d I get you a pager if you wouldn’t use it?” She finally stopped tapping her fingers and covered her face with both her hands, crying like a child. “You know I worry about you, Eddie, I worry about you just like I worried about your father!” The tears streaked down her face and dripped from her chin. “I heard breaking glass earlier this afternoon and I was so scared, I thought someone else was in the house!”

The picture frame that Richie had dropped. Eddie was in such a rush to make sure Richie wouldn’t suddenly decide to walk home ( _ and pass out and get hurt _ , _ and then it really  _ would _ be Eddie’s fault _ ) that he hadn’t even checked to see if she was okay. Eddie’s heart wilted at the thought of her, terrified and still checking upstairs to make sure she wouldn’t be attacked, all by herself—a vision he had often worried about himself when he was out late.

He found himself gathering her into a reassuring hug, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry. I came back to grab some stuff from the garage, and I knocked over a picture frame. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry.” He said it like a spell to will away her fears. She peeked out from between her fingers, her tears no longer flowing.

“Oh, it’s okay, Eddie, I forgive you!” She pulled him down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Why don’t we watch Wheel of Fortune? Today’s show is a big one.”  _ That was one of her little phrases _ , Eddie thought,  _ one that means “Make it up to me.” _ Eddie nodded mutely and helped her out of the kitchen to her favorite chair. When he sat down, she put her hand on his shoulder and kept it there, squeezing a little bit, a reminder of his failure to her.

The clapping of the audience, the manic energy of the contestants, the wheel spinning over and over, was all sort of hypnotic. Round and round it went, a blur of color and light. Round and round, until it seemed like three orbs of light started to surface from its center, spinning faster and faster, and didn’t the wheel start to look like a mouth? It took up the whole screen now, suddenly red and pulsating. Wet and hungry. His mother’s nails seemed to sink into his shoulder—all the way to his bone, it seemed—he wanted to twist away from it and scream, but he couldn’t move.

[Three’s a magic number but it’s not quite enough.]

That was what Stan had said and now the terrible realization had dawned on him that the message wasn’t just about how many people there were supposed to be.

It was for  _ him. _

Three

times a day he took pills

Three

“sorrys” whenever he messed up badly

Three

blasts on his aspirator when the asthma was bad

Now three luminous orbs of light spun madly, laughing at him. And he wanted more than ever to swallow down that battery acid mist to ward away from everything bad because if he didn’t do everything in threes something would go wrong because something always  _ did _ go wrong and didn’t today prove it because everyone was mad at him even Richie and it was his fault his fault his fault—

“Title and author, well,  _ I _ could have gotten that.” It was the first time in his whole life that Eddie realized his mother could not hear how his breathing rasped. “ _ The Sun Almost Rises _ by Ernest Hemingway.”

The screen now had returned to the gameshow and the contestants were once again clapping. Eddie tried to maintain a façade of normalcy. He wheezed, “ _ The Sun  _ Also  _ Rises.” _

“You’re so smart, Eddie-bear.” She squeezed his shoulder again, but no needlepoints of pain dug into his flesh.

“Uh,” Eddie gasped. “Can I go up to bed? I’m not feeling too well.” It was an excuse he sometimes pulled, but this time it was real—and it was an effective method to convince Sonia Kaspbrak.

“Run along then,” She said and patted him, let him bolt up the stairs, then returned to watching the comforting lights dance on her screen.

* * *

Eddie slumped against his door as soon as he closed it behind him. He reached for his aspirator, decided against it, and instead shook out five pills of Hydroxyzine. He swallowed them dry (barely registering his own intrusive thoughts about how it might give him liver problems) and tried to steady his nerves.

His OCD seemed to be getting worse and worse these days. It wasn’t that he’d suddenly developed it—kids used to call him anal and obsessive all the time—but he guessed that as you got older and you had more people to worry about, it was bound to go downhill.

His mother used to be the only person he’d ever worried about so much. She worked at a little office downtown as a secretary, making copies and answering phone calls, spending her days off puttering around the house or on occasion going to book clubs with the other mothers of Derry. She had supported him through everything, practically raised him all on her own: his father had died of cancer around the time he was six, a far-off year he could barely recall. She had told him, many a time, that he was sickly growing up too. The same year that they laid his father in the cemetery of St. Joseph’s was the same year he was so sick with tuberculosis he’d nearly been laid beside him. Whether Eddie was delicate because of the tuberculosis or if he’d gotten it because he was delicate did not matter—he suspected that Sonia Kaspbrak, too, suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder and if she could not treat herself, she would at least treat her son for a litany of diseases, real and imaginary. He’d known (he’d always known, really) that she had invented illnesses for him to have, for her to take care of him and fight off. She needed her rituals, her magic incantations to keep him safe. He didn’t hate her for that, anymore than he could have hated his father for dying. Didn’t hate her, even as she built up walls for him. He couldn’t play sports, so he stayed inside while all the kids ran around the track. He couldn’t come up with interesting things to say, so he stayed quiet. “Satisfactory in conduct, but don’t you think he could use some friends to play with?” Oh, but dear little Eddie, those friends simply couldn’t be good for you! They’re dirty (and you are too, unless you wash your hands thrice), they’re roughhousing, they call us names! I know they’re no good for you, I know because I’m your mother! So now he was an outcast. Too close to his mother to ever get close to anyone else.

But now, Richie had entered his life. And maybe it was pathetic to say, but today was the closest he had gotten to anyone since he was in middle school—emotionally and physically. He felt the tips of his ears go hot, thinking about how Richie had no problems getting into Eddie’s space. Eddie usually hated that… but with Richie, he sort of liked it too. The feeling of Richie’s hand resting on top of his own made him feel lighter than air, even if it was just a memory now. He hoped that he hadn’t messed up somehow. Years of hiding made it easy, but Richie sometimes looked like he could see right through Eddie, like his glasses were those X-Ray Goggles That Really Work! Like he could peek between the slats of Eddie’s ribs and see his heart, beating rabbit-quick and full to bursting with his secret love.

Sleep was starting to overtake Eddie, a combination of the pills and exhaustion from all that had happened. Otherwise his thoughts wouldn’t be quite so uncensored. He kept thinking of Richie…and of Stan, and how good it had been to hang out with them. To belong with them. He hoped to God or whoever was up there that Richie wouldn’t stay away for too long. He crossed to his calendar to mark off the date—noticed that he had circled the 28 th in red marker.  _ Mike’s birthday is in two weeks _ , he thought to himself.  _ I’ll have to get him something _ .

(Hanlon, Mike Hanlon, why would he know his birthday, didn’t you pretty much just meet him today?) But that question was lost to drowsiness as Eddie smoothed out his sheets and laid down. The thought that stayed, blended into a dream was  _ Maybe I’ll drive around with Richie again tomorrow. We’ll roll down the windows, the way I do when no one else is in the car—the wind will toss his hair and he’ll laugh and make a joke, then we’ll  _ both _ laugh. I can watch him while the light dances on the rims of his glasses, from the corner of my eye. He’ll catch my gaze… and he’ll smile. He’ll say, _

_ Turn. _

_ Turn on. _

_ Turn on the— _

* * *

“—radio, Eds, I wanna hear some music.” Richie had hung his radio, like he always did, on the most solid beam near the hammock. Eddie closed his comic book and rolled his eyes.

“Richie, you’re way closer to it, you get it.” He made a show of flipping open his issue of _Batman_ #436. “You’re just gonna make fun of my music taste anyways.”

The sun had not yet lost its summer heat midway through September, but it provided a welcome light for Eddie to read by while they spent time in the clubhouse. He had perched himself on the ladder and kept the trapdoor open, while Richie went straight to the hammock. It was just the two of them today, the rest of them off on errands with parents or doing chores. It was not an entirely rare occasion, but the comfort of having only a few friends around sometimes made Richie a little softer.

“Nah, I promise won’t. I like the blues.” Richie swayed back and forth in the hammock. “Come ooooon, just do me a favor, Eddie Spaghetti, I’m way too comfy right now.”

“No.”

Richie tucked his hands under his chin. “Pretty pretty please? With a cherry on top?”

“I don’t even like cherries,” Eddie grumbled, but it was a fake grumble, as it always was. He snapped shut his comic book for the second time and ducked under the flashlight to get to the beam with the radio. It burst to life with static and he carefully spun the dial until he landed in the middle of “All Your Love (I Miss Loving)”. He felt Richie’s eyes watching him and he glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

His gaze was soft, magnified behind his glasses, which were beginning to slip down his face. He pushed them up the bridge of his nose and grinned. “See, I love this song.” Eddie hid a fond smile by pretending to fiddle with the volume. When he felt it had passed, he turned all the way around.

“Still comfortable?” Eddie said, raising an eyebrow. “You know, it’s my turn now.”

“Your ten-minute rule sucks, dude.” Richie made a fart sound and thumbs-downed Eddie. “Just get in here first and you won’t have to deal.”

It was a familiar song-and-dance at this point—Eddie pretending to be exasperated by Richie, Richie goading him along just enough to bring his defenses down. This time, Eddie couldn’t stop that fond smile from returning to his face. “Everyone knows first’s the worst,” he proclaimed, and clambered in next to Richie so that their shoulders were side by side. “Second’s the best.”

“Third’s the nerd.” Richie grabbed the comic book from Eddie’s grasp and flipped it open. “Hey, cool, a helicopter chase scene!”

“Don’t spoil it for me!” Eddie tried to snatch it back from him, but his clunky cast made him miss. Richie dangled it above Eddie, his height an unfair advantage. Eddie made a couple more passes at it, laughing and to no avail. Instead of trying to win a losing battle, he simply leaned back into Richie’s unoccupied arm. Richie adjusted himself and his hand found its way to Eddie’s waist. The contact sent a shiver up and down his spine.

Richie either didn’t notice or pretended not to, but every nerve in Eddie’s body felt electric. Their knees were slightly bumping now and without realizing it, he held his breath, afraid to shatter the moment by saying anything. The only audible sound was the radio and the cicadas crying their last summer song along with Otis Rush. He felt his pulse quicken and hoped against hope that Richie didn’t know—and at the same time hoped that he did.

_It’s your last summer together like this_, Eddie thought to himself, in one of the moments of suddenly grown-up thoughts he had, more and more often these days. _If you’re going to say anything, you’d better say it now._

“School’s starting again soon.” He found his mouth moving even as he watched the way Richie started to draw abstract shapes on his hip with his pointer finger. “Are you nervous? To go into high school or whatever?”

“Are you?” Richie had a habit of turning difficult questions back on whoever had asked them—it was his way of buying time when he knew he didn’t quite like the answer. “Your mom doesn’t want us to keep hanging out. Ever since you…y’know.” Richie’s gaze dropped to Eddie’s cast which was hanging out of the hammock.

“It doesn’t hurt so much anymore.” Eddie lifted it and then dropped it down heavily in his lap, his upper arm now resting against Richie’s, their fingertips barely brushing. He stole a sidelong glance at Richie. “You know, I don’t think I ever got the chance to thank you properly.”

“For what? Setting your arm in place?” He snorted.

“Pretty sure you made it worse. No, I mean…before that.” Eddie knew that Richie remembered the way that he had cradled Eddie’s face, turning his terrified stare away from It and to the familiar face of one of his best friends. If some of those nightmare images kept Eddie up at night, it was the tender and concerned way that Richie, in spite of the danger, locked eyes with Eddie in what could have been their final moments, that helped him back to sleep. “It was nice of you.” He looked up at Richie through his eyelashes and their eyes locked again now, in a moment so vulnerable, Eddie could only manage to whisper, “So, thank you.”

(If you’re going to say anything, better say it now.) _Well, I’ll do you one better, _Eddie thought, and laid a gentle kiss on Richie’s cheek. Richie didn’t startle or flinch away like Eddie half-expected him to. Instead, he simply blinked twice, then enfolded Eddie into a hug.

His voice was full of tears, otherwise he would have said, “I love you.” But he had a feeling that Richie knew anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning notes:  
Gaslighting – The first part of this chapter deals heavily with Eddie’s relationship with his mom and how she gaslights him—it fills up a pretty big space of their conversation, which you can read the scene summary of below. You can skip to the line, “The clapping of the audience, the manic energy of the contestants, the wheel spinning over and over, was all sort of hypnotic” but at that point, it begins to deal with horror elements.
> 
> Scene summary: Eddie comes home from dropping off Richie and his mom interrogates him about where he’s been, which stresses Eddie out. She starts crying when he doesn’t give what she feels is an adequate description, and he eventually relents to apologizing when she triggers his OCD.
> 
> Horror elements – Eddie has a brief vision of It after the line, “The clapping of the audience, the manic energy of the contestants, the wheel spinning over and over, was all sort of hypnotic.” You can skip to the line, ““Title and author, well, I could have gotten that.” Scene summary below.
> 
> Scene summary: Eddie watches Wheel of Fortune with his mom and it transforms into a vision of It, who taunts Eddie’s OCD because it centers so much around the number three.
> 
> Discussion of mental illness – Eddie thinks about his OCD and how he probably inherited it from his mother after the line, “His OCD seemed to be getting worse and worse these days.”
> 
> This might be my favorite chapter I’ve written so far—I’ve talked a little about Eddie having OCD and even written a fic about it (“force of habit”) but I still think it’s an aspect that people don’t touch on a lot even though it really is Eddie’s biggest fear. It’s fun to expound on it for me and really dive deep into his character…even though y’all might not be that interested.
> 
> For those of you who weren’t, I wrote that hammock scene in for you (and me! This is my self-indulgent fic after all.) I think it’s also fun to write about young Richie and Eddie’s dynamic—after all, it’s what most of us fell in love with when we watched the first movie. Yes, Eddie is the first to make a move in this one. He’s braver than he thinks, after all.


	7. Mike Hanlon's Job to Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andy Muschietti’s It movies: exist  
Me: if you won’t give mike a character arc i’ll do it myself!  
Quick note: Mike’s parents are alive; Mike’s uncle lives with them and does ranching while Will and Jessica Hanlon farm. Combination of canon from the book and the movies because I think Mike should get to have a good life.
> 
> Trigger warning: Brief mention of homophobia and mention of racism.

Despite everything, Mike loved Derry.

He didn’t love _everything_ about it—it was a town of selfish and often cruel people who went about their life in selfish and cruel ways. But find the right people and Derry would open itself to you. Hold your loved ones in your heart, near bursting with anticipation, and you could ride down the hill his house sat behind, watching the sun bathe Derry in its breathtaking glow. He loved the canoe races that sometimes splashed their way through the Kenduskeag, all the languid days in the shade, lying in the grass, the light dappling the ground through the leaves of his favorite oak tree. The damp smell of the potatoes newly harvested, the dirt rich and moist. All the ways the wind would blow while he walked through fields with his father. His father had taught him to love the history of their town and Mike had learned about it all: to pay respect to the Penobscot people, whose land they lived on, to remember the Black Spot and the cult of 1962, to recognize the rusted spires as the old Ironworks building. It was truly because of his father that he loved Derry so much, every road they walked ingrained in Mike’s brain like neural pathways.

That was why he never forgot.

When he had come home that day, after the fight in the sewers, the sick smell of burnt flesh still searing its way into his memory, he was out of breath from pedaling home. He wanted to see his parents, his uncle—alive and unburned, unharmed by Butch and Henry Bowers. His mother had scooped him up into her arms, pressing kisses to his forehead and rocking back and forth. It felt almost as if she _knew_ he needed her there. His father’s strong hands found their way around him too, and the three of them embraced, sealing away the fear that had threatened to sweep him away. He felt grounded and safe, firm in the belief that his family was there for him.

And his friends. But as September 1989 passed its midway point, Beverly’s aunt had decided that she should move for good. They had all seen the fierce way that she had impaled her father’s face on Its body, her eyes filled with a resolute fear that had sharpened to a point. Mike and his friends all loved Bev, and though they would miss her, they would not ask her to return for the summer if it meant she would share the same town as her abuser. In fact, she had already been living with Mike’s family the last time that the Losers’ Club was all together. They had each given her a memento for her to remember the good parts of the place she would leave behind.

  1. A folded-up piece of paper from Bill who blushed as she took it from his hand. Mike figured it was a drawing, but he would never pry.
  2. A postcard from Ben, shyly saying “I’ll visit you if I can.”
  3. A pair of binoculars from Stan.
  4. Two comic issues from Eddie.
  5. A (stolen) pack of cigarettes from Richie.
  6. A photo album that Mike had made of the Losers’ Club.

He had gotten into photography in the last half of the summer and his uncle had been generous enough to help him purchase the Polaroid he kept on him at all times. It was expensive film—ten bucks for ten photos at a time, which was a pretty penny to him at the age of 14. But he wanted to keep every moment he had with the closest group of friends he’d ever had. At the back of the album, he had finally decided to write, “Thank you for convincing everyone to help me that day. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be in the club. I’m so glad we’re friends.”

Beverly’s eyes had watered, tears which she brushed away quickly with the back of her hand. “You’ll always be part of my club, Mike.”

They had all tried very hard to stay in touch, but it had gotten harder and harder. After Beverly, Bill moved away, the grief too great for his parents to stay in the town their youngest son died in. He had told them all separately, the timing of it never quite right for them to all say goodbye to him. And after Bill, Ben moved away a year earlier than expected. Mike and Ben had spent a few October evenings reading over each other’s college essays—even though Mike knew he would stay in Derry.

His father had gotten diagnosed with cancer in 1993 and it was then that Mike knew he would be attending school close to home. He could not bear to leave his family. Not after he had lost his friends.

Not all of them, mind you. He and Bev had stayed quite close, even when she moved from Portland, ME to Portland, OR. Bill’s family had moved to Ashland, Ben to some architecture school in Virginia, but despite all that, they had kept in touch. He wrote all of them, called when he could. They had all kept in touch with Mike and each other, a little circle of friends that felt like it needed three more. Mike knew who those three were, but funny enough, when you’re in the same town it sometimes feels like you must live in some other dimension. Like if you turned the corner just a little quicker you could have caught Eddie or Richie or Stan. He couldn’t ever update the ones who moved away on the ones who stayed, and Mike was guilty—ashamed that he couldn’t somehow stem the flow of their memories as it trickled away.

There was a force keeping them apart. A force that grew weaker with each passing year but had already driven a wedge between them by the time October ended and November began to spread its frost upon the ground. If he ever ran into one of those three, they would wave but pass each other by, their eyes seeing but not precisely who it was.

This was because of the town, Mike realized. Not the place, but the people. He realized it little by little, that It wasn’t really gone. The ugly racism that had twice gotten the police called on Mike when he was simply waiting for a friend or the bus. The renewed vitriol when people found out he wasn’t just Black, he was a _ queer. _ Mike had felt lonely before, but the hatred pointed towards him was downright isolating. It tasted like some sort of revenge—one that knew that the seven kids seeking friendship in each other, united, were enough to almost kill It. It was there—still sleeping, but powers still exerting their influence over them, and It somehow managed to dull their senses away.

Accelerated amnesia. Like watching someone’s health deteriorate. As if Mike didn’t already have to watch his father laying there, sickly, their walks getting shorter and shorter until Mike had to walk alone. Those days, Mike would sometimes return with tears in his deep dark eyes and his mother would come hold him close again. Though he had far outgrown her height, he would always curl towards her, until his chin rested on her shoulder. She would say, “Someday, Mike, someday everything bad you’re feeling right now is gonna make you stronger. You’re here to do a job and all this is getting you ready for it. You understand?”

Now he would be turning twenty-two in the next two weeks. And now he realized, bringing them back together, uniting them again—that was his job.

He knew that Stan and Richie had probably kept up with each other, remembered each other by sheer chance of geography. And now, by strange design, Richie and Eddie had met again, as if for the first time. Mike had kept a careful list of all their birthdays (Stan’s had just passed a few days ago but he was in New York still) and he knew that this was the year that Eddie, youngest of the Losers, would turn twenty-one.

So they were a little over halfway there. The last of them was about to lose their childhood and in nineteen or twenty more years (it sounded like a lifetime, didn’t it?) then they would have to face It again. Mike knew they’d have to prepare—needed to, because their life and the town depended on it. And he believed that if they all came together, all remembered _ how _ they had defeated It once, they could do it again.

Mike pulled down a journal from his collection of volumes, arranged judiciously on the shelf next to his favorite history books. He would have to return to Olaudah Equiano some other time, but the day was still young. His father used to joke that his journals were like a cataloged history of Derry—better than the ones sitting in the library because they were written by someone who lived and breathed there. Better still because they contained the knowledge of defeating It. He took a deep breath… and found he could not open the book without a small nagging terror in the back of his mind.

[What if It was unbeatable?]

Mike had steely nerves, that was for sure—cultivated by his uncle’s tough and blunt ways. Don’t let anyone put a bolt through _ your _eyes, Michael. But in truth, his heart was soft. His courage really began to rise to the occasion when others were around to be protected, be they animals or people. Mike needed to talk to people that needed protecting, to work up the nerve to revisit that long-ago summer. He needed to talk to his friends. It was really the only place to start.

But before all that, he had to go to his summer class—a sort of dry seminar about library sciences, but he wanted one last refresher before he applied to the always empty position at Derry Public Library. Mike carefully packed his journal into his bag, tucked safely behind Howard Zinn and Ralph Nader. He meant to take the truck, but after yesterday’s debacle, decided to ride his bike. As he wheeled it out, he spotted a turtle in one of the ditches out front of the yard, and he gave it a little friendly wave.

The sun had not yet begun to transform the fields into too-bright hues of gold and the whir of bicycle spokes whistled through the summer air. He stood up on the bike as it reached the downhill slope, thinking of the reunion of all seven of them, the anticipation of it making his heart begin to run, wild and free, seeming to fly beside him. Eddie had recognized him first, surely because he was youngest, so soon, if Mike’s theory was right, Richie would remember, and then…Stan.

A pang of sadness hit Mike. For a while, Stan used to come over to the Hanlon farm to birdwatch. They would sit together in the tall grass, Stan’s binoculars practically glued to his face, Mike looking around only half as much as he would look at him. Enjoying each other’s quiet company. So much of the time, their friend group seemed to be all shouting and goofing off, trying their best to impress each other. Mike sometimes felt like if he didn’t prove himself, as the last Loser to join, he would be left behind. And Stan had always understood that.

* * *

“It’s not your job to make people like you. You know that, right?” Mike had been preoccupied with a ladybug that had slowly crawled up his finger, but he turned to look at Stan. Stan rarely spoke when they were in the field, always worried he’d frighten any animals that were nearby—he didn’t usually mind when Mike spoke though because he said Mike had a way of speaking that calmed almost everything down.

Mike tilted his head, watched the ladybug’s elytra open and its wings unfold, sailing off into the perfect blue sky. “I guess I know that… but it doesn’t stop me from getting in my own head about it.” He rolled over from his stomach to his back, the leaves of the tree they sat under shifting in the wind. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll say the wrong thing and ruin everything.”

“Totally impossible.” Stan had relinquished the binoculars and blinked, rubbing his eyes. He laid down on the ground, his head next to Mike and his legs stretching out in the opposite direction. “I mean, look at Richie. If that was the case, none of us would be friends anymore.”

Mike snorted. “But that’s his job, you know what I mean? To be funny and make people laugh. I’m sure he’s gonna be a great comedian one day.”

“Everyone laughed when Richie said he’d become a comedian. Well, no one’s laughing now.” Stan gravely intoned, and he and Mike both shared a moment of laughter. “No, but really, Mike, none of us have jobs or like, things we’re supposed to be to each other. We’re just friends.”

An airplane flew overhead, a clean white shape peeking through the green foliage. “I guess I’m not really used to that. Does that make me sound stupid?”

Stan propped himself up on his elbow. “No, you’re not stupid. I think we all have kind of messed up ideas about what we’re supposed to expect from friendship.”

“I’ve always sort of been seen as…one kind of person, you know? People always expect me to be one thing and I feel if I don’t play into what they want me to be, they won’t want to be around me anymore.” Mike’s hand found itself perching into the crook of his other elbow. “Just seen it happen a lot I guess.”

“Everyone always wants us to be one thing. I just want you to know that I don’t see you that way. None of us do.” A curl of Stan’s sandy brown hair fell into his face and he tucked it behind his ear. “I mean, you’re complex because you’re a human being. You don’t have to just be ‘good at sports’ and I don’t have to just be ‘good with money’, you know what I mean?”

Mike nodded, a little smile growing on his face. Stan always seemed to understand the more complicated reasons why Mike had been ostracized in Derry, probably because he himself had been isolated for the same reasons. It was easy to talk to Stan—people thought he didn’t say a word, but that’s because they didn’t realize that he spent all his time listening. It was good to hear Stan chatting away now, especially because he rarely spoke up when the Losers were all together. Instead, he would glance over at Mike and pull a face, one that nearly always left Mike grinning. “I really enjoy listening to you, man. I feel like I don’t tell you that enough.”

“You tell me plenty. You love complimenting people.” Stan reached a hand back and rested it on Mike’s shoulder. “I like that about you.”

“I like that you give to your community all the time.” Mike put his hand on top of Stan’s. “Even if it doesn’t give back to you.”

“I like that you tutor me in math homework.” Stan faced his palm up so that he and Mike were holding hands.

“I like that you come up here to birdwatch.” Mike squeezed his hand affectionately.

“I like you.” Stan interlocked their fingers, both of them watching the sun’s rays filter down to them, the way it caught on the tall amber stalks of grass.

“I like you too, Stan.” It was the truth, plain and simple. “I like you a lot.”

* * *

Mike pulled the brakes and eased into the parking lot of Derry Community College—he had to stop on the east side instead of the west like he usually did, since the people training for their triathlon in late July had hoarded all the bike racks. He locked his bicycle into the (thankfully empty) rack near the payphone and hoisted his bag from where it had started to slip. As he did, one of the mementos from his journals slipped from the thin plastic sleeve he’d been meaning to repair. It was a picture of all seven of them. Back then, he had balanced his camera on the back wall of the garden at the farm, ran as the timer went off. He slung his arm around Ben, the other around Bev, and smiled wide into the lens; the summer sun bright and hot like a copper penny in the sky, the sky cloudless and blue and perfect, like that photograph, seven kids who were best friends.

Mike hadn’t called her for a while, he realized, and he decided that if he really _was_ supposed to bring everyone together, he could start with the people who lived outside of Derry. He shuffled the coins in his pocket and came up with the requisite fifty cents.

“Hello, Ben Hanscom speaking,” came a quiet high voice on the other end of the line.

“Bennie, it’s Mike. Sorry about the weird number, I’m calling from a payphone—I just realized we hadn’t chatted in a while.”

“Oh! Mike, good to hear from you. I always answer with ‘Ben’ if it’s a number I don’t know.” She laughed gently. “Did you get that postcard I sent a while back? I tried to remember your address, but I just couldn’t seem to get it right in my head. Even though I’ve known you for ages.” She trailed off a little bit. “Sorry about that.”

So it had happened to Bennie, too—even though they’d already been separated, the wedge was driving in ever further. “Actually, Bennie, I’ve got a favor to ask of you.”

Always eager to please, Bennie said, “Well, if I can do it, of course I’ll do it, Mike. You’re one of my closest friends.”

He took a deep breath in. “Do you think you could come back to Derry this summer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning notes:
> 
> Brief homophobia and racism mentions – In the paragraph beginning with the line, “This was because of the town, Mike realized,” Mike very briefly describes the racism and homophobia he’s experienced in Derry. The q-slur is used once in a derogatory way.
> 
> Ah, Mike. Even though I love him, he was a character I shortchanged a little bit in my own depiction last time, so I thought I would fix that and stretch out his chapter a little more. We get to learn a little more about Mike’s thoughts, his own personal fears, and a brief Stanlon interlude. I didn’t want it to come off as a “pair the spares” relationship and I also wanted to explore what Mike’s relationship was with all of the Losers since he’s the only one that’s tried to stay in touch with all of them.
> 
> I was also weirded out by the way Stephen King makes the “magical Native American” trope and how Muschietti played into that too, so I thought I would just mention that Mike actually knows the tribe in his area and gives a shit about them. Mike’s dad would have taught him about that, especially since 1980 was the case of the Penobscot and Passamaquody nations vs. Maine in the Maine Indian Claims Settlement Act. Yes, I do my research.
> 
> We also get Bennie’s first appearance! I am a little new to writing trans women, so if there is anything I should be doing or if I slip up, please let me know.


	8. Richie Tozier Gets Off A Good One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big shoutout to my sister who is the ONLY person on this planet who guns for my fics as hard as humanly possible by posting a link to it in her Instagram bio. That's love, man.
> 
> Speaking of her [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/p/B3IzncggVW7/), you should go look at it! She makes a lot of great art, including a bunch of Reddie doodles, so go check it out!

Richie startled awake, nearly falling out of his bed in the process. The specter of a gentle kiss on his cheek seemed to linger for far longer than he thought it would, even as he maneuvered his way out of his tangled blankets. He had, for a moment, thought he was floating, holding someone, but his dreams slipped their way out his grasp as easily as water dripped down his face. He splashed himself in the face again, put his glasses on, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Dreams that seemed like they’d happened before, a life half-lived in bleached summer colors before disappearing from him. He’d never felt more real than when he closed his eyes and slept (if sleep would ever come.)

Richie could already feel how unfocused he was getting and hoped that the long walk from his house to the campus would shake him out of that miserable state. The jumper cables that Eddie had left him were laying on top of the kitchen counter and he snagged them and his keys. The house was completely empty except for him. The whole kit and caboodle of the Tozier family had probably headed out without even noticing he wasn’t in tow. He was pretty quiet when he was home—mostly because he realized very young that no matter how much noise he made, it would never get their attention.

“I’m leaving now! Don’t miss me too much!” He called out to the emptiness and shut the front door behind him.

The sun beat down on the pavement with a relentless fury that seemed to burn the whole world—Richie could swear the sidewalk was melting under his feet. He pushed his glasses up his face and squinted at the heat haze rising up from the street. Another boiling hot summer stuck in the same stupid town he’d always been in. He should have left when he had the chance (if he ever had the chance) but of course Richie Tozier was never going to wise up, even if he was a wise guy most of the time. Some days he just wanted to jump behind the wheel of his shitty old car and roar down the highway to California. Beaches, babes, booze…other things that started with “B” that he wanted… (Benches? Brownies? Bees?)

While he was still lost in thought, Richie heard the engine of a car approaching him, though it was not the strained gurgle of his own rust-bucket chariot. A pale blue BMW pulled up beside him and (surprise, surprise) Eddie rolled down the window. He quickly glanced at Richie, a full head to toe sweep and said, “Richie, you look like you just woke up.”

“Kind of just did.” Richie stretched his arms above his head and tried to look nonchalant. “It’s fucking hot for the morning, isn’t it?”

Eddie looked mildly horrified, but mostly amused. “What the hell? It’s 12:30, dude, I just finished class.”

Richie goggled at him. “What? Oh my god.” He rubbed his forehead. “God, I guess I was just up super late…” Eddie looked sympathetic for a second, so Richie dropped his favorite joke. “I was up the whole night long…you know, fucking your mom.”

Eddie squinted and his hand shot up next to his face (like he was gonna karate chop something, a regular Ken Masters), but he didn’t say anything. Then he started to roll up the window.

“Aw come on, Eds, that was a pretty good one!”

“I am _so_ done with you, Richie.”

“I’m funny, you gotta admit that was perfect timing—!”

“No, it was not and you’re not funny, you’re just stupid.” He could already hear the smile in Eddie’s voice, even as it was disappearing behind the window.

“Oh, Eddie, Eddie my love,” Richie crooned in his best Fifties-era Voice, “Please don’t make me wait too long!” He batted his eyelashes at the closed window. “Let me hitch a ride with you so I can get my car?”

Eddie rolled the window down only enough so that his eyes were visible. “Only because I like The Chordettes.” A car that had sidled up behind Eddie without either of them noticing honked, and Eddie jumped. “Oh shit, get in, hurry up!”

Richie crammed himself quickly into the backseat of the car and Eddie hit the gas. “Ooh la la! I feel like you’re my chauffeur.” He mimed holding a wine glass and swirling it around. “Darling, this limousine wine is just di-_vine_. Do I detect a hint of grapes?”

Eddie snickered, and Richie clambered up to the front seat, bumping his head in the process. “You’re so stupid,” Eddie repeated. “Literally, so stupid.”

“But you love me.” Richie had no idea why he was being so affectionate all of a sudden, but Eddie just gave him a playful little smile.

“Barely.” Eddie glanced sidelong at Richie. “I didn’t know you could sing, by the way.”

Richie shrugged. “I really wanted to be a rock star when I was a kid. I still kind of do honestly, which is kind of dorky, I know. But I still practice guitar all the time.” Richie blew his hair out of his eyes. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do.”

“That’s not dorky. I admire that, kind of.” Eddie chewed on his lip to think about his next words. “Like, knowing what you want to do. I feel like I’m always just…doing whatever comes my way.” He sighed. “I barely know what I’m gonna do with the rest of my life and I’m _twenty_ for God’s sake. I feel like I wasted all of two decades.”

Richie clapped Eddie on the shoulder. “Hey, I’m twenty-one, man. And from a dropout to a totally uptight freak who is already doing all he can do, adulthood is about fucking up a bunch until you figure something out.”

Eddie smiled again as they pulled into the parking lot. “That actually kind of helps.”

“Oh, that was my advice for Stan. My advice for you is…” Richie put a finger to his head in mock concentration. “Stop taking so many vitamin supplements or you’ll turn into my grandma.”

Eddie rolled his eyes fondly and parked next to Richie’s car. “Did you actually remember the jumper cables or am I going to have to cart you around all day today?” Richie grabbed them from the back and waggled them at Eddie. “Oh good, your brain’s actually functioning today.”

“Yes, it’s a rare occurrence so please enjoy it while it lasts.” Richie unbuckled his seatbelt and went to pop the hood of his car while Eddie did the same. Eddie leaned against the car when he finished, his shorts riding up slightly on his tanned legs. Richie scratched his neck and tried to pry his gaze away from them, instead zeroing in on the little mole below Eddie’s right knee.

“Do you not know how to jumpstart a car?” Eddie asked. “Actually, wait, I should have expected that. It’s fine, I can do it.” He hustled over to Richie and began busily connecting the cables. Richie picked his jaw up off the floor and then immediately dropped it again while Eddie bent over to clip the last black cable into place. “Okay, that looks good.” (Yeah it does, Kaspbrak—oh my god, Richie, he means the _car_.) “I’m gonna start my car and hope your battery’s not busted.”

Thankfully, someone up there was looking out for Richie because his car started without a hitch. Eddie looked pleased with himself as Richie gave him a thumbs up. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.” Then he scuffed the tip of his shoe against the ground a few times. “Uh, look, sorry about being so fucking weird yesterday. I don’t want you to think I don’t like you or anything.” Eddie was giving him an inscrutable look, so he continued, “Actually, I like hanging around you and I know we’ve only known each other for like, a day, but I just feel like…good when we’re hanging out. So, we should keep hanging out.” He finished with a small shrug.

“Like…today?” Eddie asked, with something like a sparkle of hope in his eyes (and there you go again, describing dude’s eyes with sparkles, give it a rest.)

“Do you _want_ to cart me around all day?” Richie fired back and Eddie wrinkled his nose.

“You’re always doing that answering with questions bullshit. Yes, I’ll drive you around, even though we just started your car. Why don’t I come pick you up in an hour?” Eddie hopped back into the driver’s seat of his BMW.

Richie winked at him. “Yeah, since you know where I live now.”

“Ew, you’re making me sound like a serial killer.” Eddie started to pull out of his parking spot. “Drive your car around for like, fifteen minutes before you turn that off. See you in a bit.”

* * *

The drive home wasn’t of much note. Richie took the opportunity to pop some of his Ritalin (he’d missed several doses already but there was no point in getting bent out of shape about it) and finish the disgustingly warm coffee he’d poured himself yesterday. He thought vaguely about if that was a bad idea but had drank all of it before any real health concerns coalesced in his head.

An hour had often felt long for Richie who was constantly restless, but much longer when he was waiting for Eddie to come around. He figured he needed to do something, so he had gotten halfway through wiping down the kitchen counters before he realized he was cleaning up _for_ Eddie. He chuckled a little at the notion of it—Eddie seemed more of the housewife type than he did by a long shot. “Honey, I’m home!” Richie said to himself and then burst into laughter.

“What’s so funny down there?” His dad’s voice floated from upstairs.

A slightly hot flush of shame accompanied Richie’s surprise. He’d assumed no one was home. “Just getting off a good one, dad. Thought you weren’t home.”

His dad was clearly rushing out of the house, as his dress shoes clicked down the stairs at a rapid pace. “I didn’t think you were either. Surprised you got back home in one piece. We didn’t see your car in the driveway last night.”

“It died while I was at the community college. I was home pretty much all day yesterday.” Richie started back on wiping the counters down to keep his mind busy. “You didn’t notice?”

“Was kind of in a rush, sport. Still am.” Richie’s dad shoved some papers into the briefcase he was holding. “Per the usual. I’ll see you tonight though?” He was out the door before Richie could make a joke in poor taste about his dad’s untreated ADHD or even respond to his question.

Richie devoted the next twenty minutes to lamenting the amount of clothes he had heaped on the floor of his room and then agonizing over the fact that he had assumed Eddie would even see his room, which took up another twenty minutes. By the time Eddie pulled up to the house, Richie’s palms were sweatier than they had been when he’d challenged Hannah Whitaker to a monkey-bar race (that he won, by the way.) Eddie was apparently as impatient as Richie was, because the doorbell rang a whole nine times before he made it to the door.

“Wow, eager to see me, much?” Richie slicked back his hair (to subtly wipe the sweat into his hair. Yes, he was a disaster, but he’d be one with dry hands, goddammit.)

“No, fivehead, I just wanted to make sure you were actually here. This place looks deserted.” Eddie poked his head slightly into the doorway. “Kind of weird.”

“You injure me, Edward. I’m sensitive about my forehead.” Richie leaned against the doorframe. “Uh, mi casa es su casa or whatever you say. I’m gonna actually remember my wallet and meds this time. You can sit down for a second if you want.” Richie retraced his steps, grabbed his wallet from the kitchen counter and his meds from the side table near the couch, and returned to Eddie.

“Did you get all these trophies?” Eddie’s attention had naturally locked in on the biggest thing in the room (my dick, haha, nice one Tozier) which was the cabinet full of trophies by the doorway. The mental high-five that Richie executed with himself left a slight pause in the conversation that he filled.

“Uh, yeah. Duh. They’re for my many skills: most handsome one-night-stand, talented in bed, champion of fucking—”

“Cheerleading competition in 1995.” Eddie shot a glance at Richie. “Yeah, these are totally yours.”

“You’d love to see me in a miniskirt.” Richie shot back. Eddie’s ears went bright red and he sputtered slightly. Richie thankfully swerved away from his impulse to make the joke about if Eddie was gay (tasteless and also still a fresh wound) and continued, “Oh, Eddie, have you got a thing for cheerleaders?”

“You are literally so juvenile.” Eddie muttered under his breath. “Besides, we’re in our twenties, it’d be gross to be into cheerleaders at this point.” He squinted at the engraved text. “Peggy Tozier?”

“The star child, racking up all the trophies. Cheerleading, swim meets, you name it.” Richie tried to keep the bitterness out of his words, but he ended up tasting it anyways. “I think my mom was disappointed when I was born after her. She and Pegs get along super well. She’s visiting from NYU.”

“Graduate school?” Eddie looked mildly impressed, which irritated Richie just a touch.

“Hey, I guess extracurriculars get you somewhere. Shouldn’t have spent so much time trying to make a band.” Richie faked spitting into a spittoon. “I reckon that’s whatcha get. Ayup, that’s my just desserts.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said you play guitar. And yet I haven’t seen you do it yet.” Eddie smiled up at Richie. “I’m starting to think it’s a possibility that you can’t shred.”

“Oh, I _shred_.” Richie mimed an air guitar and sang the riff for Bohemian Rhapsody to an amused Eddie. “Wait, do you want me to actually play you something?”

“I didn’t park in front of a meter or anything, so yes, play me some tunes.” Eddie hopped over and sat on the couch. “Ew, there’s crumbs all over this.”

“Hey, I wiped the kitchen counters, man. You can’t expect me to do everything around here.” Richie called over his shoulder. He was weirdly excited (which meant weirdly nauseous as well) to play a song for Eddie. He grabbed his amp and guitar and bounded down the stairs.

“I know you said what type of music you like yesterday and all, but I’m gonna play something different so you know I can and that I’m not just fucking around.” Richie tuned his guitar and strummed it a couple times.

“If you play super loud thrash metal or some variation of something that says, ‘Hey, I fucked your mom,’ I’m going to walk out of your house immediately.”

“Oops, that was options one through ten. Guess I’m not playing anything for you after all.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “No, I’m gonna play something good. Geez, Eddie, have a little faith.” He scooted closer to Eddie and sat on top of his amp.

Richie liked playing music. It was one of the things he felt _really_ good at, specifically because he had a natural talent for it. Unlike his Voices, which he spent a majority of time perfecting, his brain naturally gravitated to looping songs, seeking out the patterns in music and replicating them on the fretboard. Where he forgot things just as soon as you’d tell it to him, he could pull the thread of a song from anywhere in his brain even if he’d heard it once, years ago. And his normally fidgety hands were genius when it came to tricky riffs, like the one he started now. He thought briefly about looking up at Eddie as he played, but his own nerves caught him, and he ended up only glancing up through his eyelashes.

Eddie looked starstruck—genuinely positively starstruck—and Richie almost faltered on the next note. The introduction to the song was fairly long though and Eddie probably wouldn’t notice if he added a couple bars to it. From the looks of it, he was actually invested in Richie’s playing. It wasn’t just something that Eddie pushed Richie into doing as a joke or to pass the time. He was leaning forward, close enough that Richie could look at the smattering of freckles across his cheeks. Richie could almost imagine a pink blush working its way underneath them but let that thought float away as he started to sing. “Time is never time at all, you could never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth…”

Richie let himself concentrate on the song now. How his voice was pretty firmly in the doesn’t-sound-like-Billy-Corgan range, the ebb and flow of the rhythm, the high notes that he could hit if he just strained his voice a little. He didn’t look at Eddie because he knew if he did: saw the sunlight hitting his eyes and illuminating the warm brown inside of them, looked too closely at the small curve of his mouth—if he saw all that, he would ruin the moment. He’d get too jumpy and start to kid around again with Eddie, butcher the high notes just to get a laugh, strum too fast and break this fragile little instant that he was allowing himself to be vulnerable in.

It was near the end of the song now and Richie’s hands jumped around to add new licks and replace the percussion that should have been in the song, thankful for the task of it occupying the space in his head. His walls were down, and it was scaring him half to death, more frightening than whatever hallucination he’d had. It was terrifying because he _wanted_ to look up and see the wonder on Eddie’s face, bask in the moment where Eddie was paying attention to him and only him and live in it forever…but the inevitable rejection loomed over him even as he sang, “The impossible is possible tonight.”

Finally, he looked up. “Pretty good, huh?” He joked, shoving his glasses up on his face.

The sincerity of Eddie’s reply threw him for a loop. “It was. You’re incredible, Richie. You know, you probably _could_ be a rock star.” Richie sure felt like one, what with how Eddie was looking with him, and he probably would have traded all the glory and groupies of rock and roll for the smile Eddie gave him. His stomach did a couple flip-flops and as usual, he couldn’t tell if it was excitement or dread.

“Uh, um. Thanks.” Richie fumbled for a more coherent reply and settled on, “Well, you’ve probably gotten a good dose of my irresistible playing, so we should probably head out now. I don’t know that my parents will want an uninvited guest around.” Richie relented to one of his impulses, “Even one as cute as you.” He pinched Eddie’s cheek, which finally broke whatever had been growing between the two of them.

“Ugh, come on, Richie, get off me and let’s go to the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice chapter for the boys this time around. This is so embarrassing to say, but this chapter was totally an excuse for me to write two different moments where Richie gets to sing to Eddie and Eddie secretly loves being serenaded. This begs the question: can Eddie sing at all? Vote on your phones now!
> 
> Also sorry for the weird timing of these updates! I love posting at night because it's the only time I really get to actually working on my hobbies like fic writing. Maybe someday I'll write a chapter and post it at a reasonable time...but that day is not today.


	9. Letters to Home

_October 1989_

Dear Mike,

I wanted to send you a letter first before everyone else. Hope that’s not weird—just felt like we got really close after your parents let me stay with you for a while. I also didn’t get Ben’s address before I moved. I think he’s a little shy. Besides, I’m sure you’ll share this with everyone! (Maybe read it aloud and skip over the boring parts.)

Changing schools has been weird. You get to start over, but midway through the school year, so you end up being “the new kid” instead. I guess I kind of get what Ben was going through. At the very least, I stopped having the reputation as “Marsh’s kid.” So “new girl” is better.

It’s a lot harder to steal smokes when you’re in a town like this—I guess it’s a little different than Derry. I’ve been subsisting off of the ones Richie got me. And it rains a lot more in Portland. I like it when it’s raining, it feels like everything is cleaner and newer. Like it’s really all a blank slate for once. There aren’t any more pictures of my dad around the house, but there are pictures of my mom and my aunt. I wish there were more pictures of all of you that I could put up. My aunt’s not one for pictures, really, but I still have the scrapbook you made me and I keep thumbing back through the comics Eddie gave me too. Haven’t used the binoculars yet but I’m sure they’ll come in handy eventually.

I’m glad I got to bring my keyboard. There’s a lot of people who like music here too but I miss Richie trying to play guitar. I mean I miss all of you. I know more people now but I miss going to the Barrens with all of you. I keep asking my aunt if we can visit over the summer but she says that it’s too early to think about that.

Wish we could have figured out something with Halloween, too. It’s only been a month but I guess we never had Halloween together which makes me sad. We’ve all been through scary stuff and we can’t even have a party together and get drinks and hang out in a graveyard or whatever. I think we’re probably fearless at this point right?

I wanted to know how your school stuff is going, mine’s all boring new girl bullshit still. I sort of wish I was homeschooled but I guess I still don’t know exactly what it’s like. Maybe tell me and I’ll convince my aunt. Ha ha ha.

By the way my aunt finally set up the new phone, it’s 555-782-1083 so call when you get this okay? Make sure you tell everyone else so you can’t take up all of my time! Haha I’m joking again, there’s no way I’d get tired of hearing back from you guys.

Talk to you soon.

Love,

Beverly Marsh ♡♡

* * *

_April 1990_

Mike,

Thanks so much for the birthday card and I hope that this letter doesn’t come too late, though I don’t think there’s any holidays that would make that hard. I don’t know if my parents really remembered to get me anything, but getting your card in the mail might’ve been the best present. The chickens are looking good. Daisy’s getting pretty big, now isn’t she? Bev and Ben sent cards too, plus a postcard too. Bev wanted to visit but it was a school day so I think we’ll meet up some other time. You’ve probably heard that she wants to be an emancipated minor and move up here to Oregon. Hopefully! You three really are my best friends. I basically only got to hang out with Audra on my birthday, but at least we had cupcakes and that was okay.

I wanted to send something back for you so enclosed find new comics that might not have made it to Derry. The comic store here in Ashland’s loads better. Wish I could say the same about speech therapy. Thanks for saying I’m getting better all the time but I like writing more. Guess I’m still nervous about talking over the phone. I know it technically takes longer to write, but it feels like ages when I’m speaking and I can’t get the words out right. When I’m writing things seem a little clearer.

This is a little embarrassing but do you think I could send you some stuff about a book I want to write? It’s a horror novel. My teacher says it’s total drivel, but he’s kind of a nut about non-fiction and war books which is… a lot. You’re lucky you never had to deal with that kind of thing. Hope your dad is doing okay, by the way. Last I heard he was in the hospital.

Anyways, when you get this, you can call or write back about all the other stuff that’s going on back there! I know it got a little radio silent back when I moved so please let me know what else is going on back there, okay?

All the best,

Bill Denbrough

* * *

_February 1991_

[phonecall transcript]

BEN: Mike! Mike, hey!

MIKE: You made it there okay?

BEN: Yeah, I’m at Bill’s house. I know I said I was gonna call in the airport but I couldn’t find a phone. That place is built confusinger than I thought.

MIKE: More confusing, as Stan would say.

BEN: Who?

MIKE: Um. Never mind.

BEV: Mike! Mike! Mike!

MIKE: Bev!

BEV: Oh my god, I wish you could have come too! It’s so cool to see the boys again! I feel like I’m a kid again.

MIKE: I would have come if I liked New Kids on the Block.

BEN: They’re a good band, man! Step by Step sounds amazing!

(Beverly laughs in the background.)

BEV: That settles it, I really _am_ going to move up here. I petitioned the court a while back so I’ll be hearing from them soon.

BEN: …All the way up to Oregon?

BEV: Yeah. You should come too, New Kid.

MIKE: Get a room, you two.

BEN: Haha. Mike, if you’re here too it’ll be just like when we were kids.

MIKE: Oh, not quite.

BEV: What do you mean? Just ‘cause it’s not Maine? You’re really fond of that old place.

MIKE: No, I mean—

BILL: Hey, my dad needs the computer, we gotta get off the phone.

MIKE: Aw, man.

BILL: Sorry we didn’t talk much. We can call you back.

BEN: We’ll tell you how the concert is!

BEV: We love you Mike!

BEN: Talk to you soon!

* * *

_June 1997_

“Long time no talk, Hanlon.” Bev’s voice came over the phone, her crooked grin (from years of perching a cigarette on one side of her mouth) evident even when Mike couldn’t see her. “I assume the farmer’s market rush is dying down a little bit.”

“A little peace and quiet, yeah. I’m just taking library science courses this summer.” Mike cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he put his journal back on the shelf. “I already called Bennie about this, but I was wondering if you wanted to get together this summer. I know this is really short notice—”

“Already on it. She gave me a call probably as soon as you hung up.” The unmistakable rustle of clothing into a duffel bag came over the speaker. “I’m gonna head down in the next few days hopefully. I’m picking up Bill and then we’ll just drive on down.”

“From a whole different coast?”

“It’s not too hard, don’t worry.” The key on her necklace hit the phone with a jingle. “Oops, sorry. I’ve had a lot of experience driving here. It’s not too different from Derry. I mean, of course, there’s a lot less trucks. A lot more Subarus. But we’ll be fine.” She laughed. “At least it’ll be me driving and not Bill.”

Mike chuckled. “I’m excited to see the two of you. You’re welcome to stay with me and my folks. Of course they’ll ask if the two of you are lovebirds or something and put you in separate rooms regardless.”

“Hah.” Bev snorted. “No way. Bill’s so sweet on Audra I can’t imagine that he’d be interested in me.” She sighed, suddenly preoccupied. “I think I’ve gotta go in a second, Mikey, I totally forgot I’m doing a house call today.”

“See ya, Bev. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Mike put the phone back on the hook carefully, then smiled to himself. Pieces were falling into place. He felt it, his heart beating with excitement so fervent and tangible—less of a dream, finally, and more of a reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for having such a short chapter this time around! I am very busy but I promise from the bottom of my heart that I will not abandon this fic. I will see it to the very end if it kills me.  
Side note: I use Ben’s name rather than Bennie in this one, mostly because these are recollections and Bennie had not transitioned at that point in her life, but I want to make it clear that she uses she/her pronouns exclusively. More on that in her chapter that will be coming up sometime soon!  
Also, a happy early Halloween! I have several costumes this year, but one of them is Eddie Kaspbrak—I just love him so much. Let me know if you’re dressing up as one of the IT kids or even something else horror movie related!


	10. Eddie Kaspbrak Runs to Beat the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Brief internalized homophobia and horror elements.

If you had to choose a word to describe Richie Tozier, you’d be hard pressed, Eddie decided. You couldn’t just say he was annoying—that was oversimplifying it, even if his air drum solo got fairly annoying after the first twenty seconds. You couldn’t say he wasn’t charming either, because that was the whole reason you forgave him for being such a nutcase. He was a paradox or an oxymoron, the kind that lodged itself into your brain and kept popping up wherever he pleased. Eddie couldn’t stop thinking about him (couldn’t stop _dreaming_ about him if he was being honest with himself.) Richie was kind of a Loser with a capital L, but then again, so was Eddie. That word had been bouncing around Eddie’s mind too, the two thoughts colliding with each other in confusing ways, refusing to resolve themselves. Even when Richie lobbed a French fry at him, Eddie brushed it off without any complaints about the grease or crumbs that might have found their way down his shirt, too preoccupied with what all the pieces of his thoughts meant.

“Hey, dude, if you don’t start paying attention to me right now, I’m gonna put ranch on the next one I toss at you.” To make a point, Richie dipped another fry into the dressing and chomped down on it. “Watch out, Eds.”

“I’d rather not pay attention to the fact that you’re desecrating a perfectly good fry with such a shitty condiment.” Eddie replied.

“Well, what do you put on your fries? If you say mustard, you’re dead to me.”

“God, no. I’m firmly in the camp of dipping your fries in your milkshake.” Eddie took another sip of water—he’d been a little too lost in thought to order anything, so Richie had snagged him a water cup with Sprite that Eddie promptly replaced with actual water.

“You wanna go grab a shake and show me? I promise I won’t finish my fries off while you get one.” Richie put his hand up. “Scout’s honor. And before you say anything snarky, I _was_ a Boy Scout for a little while.”

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

Richie laughed. “Yeah, so am I, dingus. Live a little!”

Eddie relented and fished a couple dollars out of his wallet. “Fine. I’m leaving my stuff here, but don’t mess around with any of it.” When he returned to the booth, clasping the paper cup and popping down the bubbles on the lid, Richie had a big grin on his face.

“You got your favorite flavor I see. Kaspbrak’s a strawberry man.” Richie reached for the straw that Eddie was now fidgeting with. “What?”

“Wait, Richie.” Eddie batted Richie’s hand away. “How’d you know that strawberry was my favorite flavor?” Eddie asked. “And stop trying to take my stuff, this is a serious question.”

Richie averted his gaze, suddenly uncomfortable—Eddie was too, keenly aware of his gaze zeroing in on Richie, how his mouth had taken on a life of its own and asked the question before he quite knew what he had said. “I don’t know, man. Lucky guess.”

“It’s not a guess,” Eddie said, his palms growing cold as he clenched and unclenched his hands with a sort of manic energy. “It’s just like when you and I were talking for the first time, you—you said my name.” He felt his lungs starting to constrict and his eyes starting swimming, so he tried to take a deep breath. When he fell short, he grabbed his aspirator and jammed in his mouth, the plastic shoving up against his teeth as he took a puff. Richie’s eyes were darting around, wild animals that danced behind his lenses, searching for some sort of answer hidden in Eddie’s face, which felt strange and foreign to even himself. Something had taken over him as the words poured out of him. “You feel it too, I know you do—whatever Stan said back there, and even before that: you know me, and I know you. I can’t explain it, but I know it.” Eddie finally trailed off, whatever strange energy that had taken over him vanishing just like the air from his lungs again. He took another smaller puff, less frenetic now. “I had a dream about you.”

“Ooh, kinky.” Richie said, a half-hearted chuckle that turned into a full-on laughing fit as Eddie frowned deeply. “Oh, dude, the look on your face.”

“That’s not funny, Richie, I’m really being serious!” Eddie popped open his milkshake, irritated, and snagged one of Richie’s fries. “I’m gonna take the rest of your fries as your asshole tax.”

“I was gonna give them to you anyways. They’re getting cold and everyone knows that the best fries are eaten fresh. Finish ‘em in ten minutes or throw ‘em away.” Richie pushed the tray over to Eddie. “But okay, I digest.”

“Digress.” Eddie corrected.

“No, it’s a joke with levels.”

“Or you’re just stupid.”

Richie kicked Eddie’s leg under the table. “Be nice to me! Anyways, what I mean to say is I’m changing the topic back. You actually, legitimately had a dream about me?”

“Don’t kick me and yes, I did. Or at least I think I did. I kind of don’t remember it very well.”

“So there’s definitely the possibility of it being a sex dream. I repeat: ooh, kinky.”

“Look, would you cut it out? We were kids in the dream anyways—that’s the thing. I can’t really remember it all, but I just remember you and I were...” Eddie cut himself off mid-thought. “Uh, did you ever have a treehouse or something growing up?”

“Aren’t you pushing this a little too far?” Richie asked, his eyebrow at a quizzical angle. “Like, how much did you believe Stan? He’s always been like that since we were kids, always saying random shit that he doesn’t get or mean. I dunno, it’s like a mini-seizure or something—”

Eddie interjected, “What issue of Batman did you try to spoil for me by saying there was a helicopter chase?”

“—he gets this weird look in his eyes and Batman #436, geez, I can’t believe you’re still holding that against me, it’s barely a spoiler.” Richie blinked. “What?”

“So how’d you know that?”

“Eddie, I just say things, I’m serious! Whatever weird hidden backstory you’re trying to unlock in me, it’s not a thing.” Richie insisted. “Weird coincidences, that’s all.”

“Come on, you can’t keep looking away from it!” Eddie threw his hands up in the air exasperatedly. “All I’m telling you is this: I don’t remember much from my childhood and that freaks me out. My mom doesn’t seem to notice how I’ve got gaps in my memory because she has the same ones. I snuck out to a therapist appointment here in Derry and he told me it’s a perfectly normal thing to “misremember parts of your youth” but he didn’t say a goddamn thing about the whole affair having some kind of filter or veil over it. Sometimes I can just see through the gaps—a song on the radio, a random book, a smell, but…” Eddie wanted to take Richie’s hand and make him really understand what he was saying, but already the other patrons of the diner were glancing (_staring_, Eddie, they’re staring) at the two boys who were at a diner all alone. “You’re the first person I know for sure was there. You’re lifting the veil and God, I just need to know what’s on the other side.”

Richie stared. “You’re serious.”

Eddie wanted to hit the table with his fist, but instead he blinked back the frustrated tears that were forming in his eyes. “Yes, I’m serious, Richie. I have been the whole time.”

“Sorry.” Richie fiddled with his necklace. “I… yeah. I dunno, I get kind of freaked when people start saying serious shit. I didn’t mean to make you like…y’know.” Richie vaguely gestured at Eddie. “Look, I had a kind of weird dream last night too, but the details are hazy.” Richie looked around furtively and then patted Eddie’s hand. “You said something about a treehouse? I haven’t got a tree anywhere near my house, but I did play around in the Barrens as a kid. Maybe there’s more clues there.”

* * *

By the time they had gotten to the Barrens, Eddie had recovered from the ball of stress he had worked himself up into. Sure, it was infuriating when Richie refused to stop joking around when you wanted to be real about something, and yes, Eddie had to restrain himself from socking him in the shoulder, but when you were down, Richie would do everything to cheer you up. In truth, Eddie was kind of excited to be tromping around in the lush jungle on the outskirts of Derry—there was something adventurous and thrilling about spending time in a place that was forbidden. It was easy to imagine Richie messing around down here, jumping on rocks and balancing on fallen logs.

“I feel like we’re in _The Goonies_ or something.” Eddie commented as he inched his way along the path. “You seriously used to hang out here?”

“Yeah, me and Stan used to throw firecrackers in the quarry.” Richie rolled his eyes. “When you’re the only person who’s been invited to your friend’s Bar Mitzvah, you know you guys are friends for life.” Richie clambered over a boulder and offered a hand down to Eddie. “Plus I got perma-banned from the two comic stores in Derry so, you know. Something about being too loud.”

Eddie pulled himself up and then caught his breath at the top of the boulder. “Geez. It’s a lot of effort to get anywhere here.”

“Well, we didn’t used to drive here. We used to bike down on that path over there—see, there, through the trees?” Richie traced the path with his finger. “Yeah, I used to ride on the back of this other guy’s bike, and he used to go so fast, I thought I’d break my neck.” Richie extended his fist and yelled, “Hi-ho, Silver, away!”

Eddie blinked. Suddenly on the path, he could see him—his broad back, a red flannel flapping in the wind, a boy too small for the bike he rode, but standing on its pedals all the same. The flashes of sunlight through the trees bounced off of his metal steed as he raced through the woods, picking up speed as he gazed forward, determination in the line of his jaw. “Bill,” Eddie whispered. “Bill Denbrough.” The name carried some sort of weight: a feeling of being a little bit braver than you were, a soldier on the front lines, the kind of guy you would lay your life on the line for. “That was his name.”

“Man, I feel like you’re going all psychic on me. Let’s keep going before you pull a Stan moment.” Richie jumped down on the other side and winced. “Oh god, my bones feel so old. I’m in my twenties and I’m practically geriatric.”

“You should take calcium supplements.” Eddie replied as he joined Richie.

“Come on, I ate like a whole jar of Flintstone gummy vitamins when I was thirteen, doesn’t that count?”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“Wait, serious question, doesn’t that count? Eddie?” Eddie started to walk ahead of Richie. “Come on, Spaghetti, it really doesn’t count?”

* * *

The heavy rains of spring in Derry always meant the Kenduskeag was burbling happily along, the sound of it still enduring and powerful despite the fact that they were largely surrounded by trees. The sun had begun to dip lower in the sky and by Eddie’s watch, it was nearing 5:30 p.m. The thicket they had arrived in was much less poison ivy ridden than the other areas they had seen and that much was already promising.

“I really shouldn’t have worn shorts,” Eddie complained. “I’m getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

As if to punctuate that, Richie slapped one away. “Yeah, the Barrens is a bloodthirsty place, my man. But there should be less of them here than when we were trekking around those sewer pumps. Yuck.” Richie squinted up at the trees.

“I don’t think any of these are big enough to hold a treehouse,” Eddie said. “Not like I’m an architect or anything. Plus, you really think any of our parents would have lugged a bunch of equipment out here to build a treehouse in the middle of nowhere? No way.” Eddie half-barked a laugh at the thought of his mother, who already hated the outdoors, shimmying up a tree and building him a space that she wouldn’t be in. “My mom would have had a fit if she thought I’d be somewhere I could break my leg falling out of.” (Eddie then subtly tapped three times on a tree to make sure she wouldn’t have a fit either way.)

“Wow, overprotective much.” Richie leaned against a tree. “Not to be weird, but I did notice you’ve got a couple stitches in your arm—so was she cool with you breaking other bones or something?”

Eddie let his gaze linger on the pale scar that ran its way on his forearm. “Uh, I have a theory about this, actually. It’s definitely from falling and I had a cast in my dream… but I think you had something to do with it?”

Richie grimaced. “Don’t tell me I broke your arm. I’d have to travel back in time and punch child me in the face. Not like I don’t already want to do that, but now I’d have a reason to.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Eddie paused. “Also, don’t punch kids in the face. I think you just somehow…stopped it from being worse? Or at least, I just remember being grateful to you about something. It must have been some messed up situation we were in.” The woods were suddenly cold and foreboding, and even in the summer heat, Eddie shivered. He moved closer to Richie who had also found his way to Eddie’s side. The insects seemed to be screaming down at them, cicadas who had emerged from their shells early and surrounded them, invisible and omnipresent. The yellow orb of the sun seemed to cast no light, hanging more like an eye in the sky—the river’s sound was pounding like a heartbeat in their ears and It was terrifying.

“Let’s get the fuck out of dodge,” Richie whispered, clinging onto Eddie’s shirt. Eddie nodded. In a burst of motion, the two of them began to run, running to beat the devil who had its grip on space where they had been, trying to force the two of them apart. They splashed through the muddy creeks that Eddie had tried so hard to avoid on his way over, barreling through the branches Richie had pushed out of the way, the drum of their sneakers hitting the ground rhythmic and comforting at least in the fact that they were running together. _When you’re running for your life,_ Eddie thought dimly, _there’s no better person to be beside than Richie Tozier._ And the running was good, despite the fear, the adrenaline was beginning to win out—Eddie could swear their feet weren’t touching the ground any longer. _He runs very fast_, he heard a voice saying in the back of his mind, _he runs very fast if only you let him_. Richie was starting to fall behind, and whatever was chasing them was hot on their heels. Eddie reached a hand back and thought of Bill Denbrough, the wind rushing in his ears as he rode behind him, going faster than he thought possible: light speed, warp speed, a rabbit leaping just moments from the jaws of the fox. He pulled with all of his might to get Richie beside him again and yelled, “Hi-ho, Silver, away!”

It was only by the time they had scrambled up the steep bank to the bridge that the two of them realized they were holding hands.

Richie let go and awkwardly began to straighten his shirt out. Eddie’s hand felt suddenly very empty and his scar on his arm began to throb. “Christ, I must have gotten something in my eyes, I can’t see for shit,” Richie complained while rubbing underneath his glasses. Eddie gently took his glasses off and began to clean them on his partially mud-splattered shirt.

With his glasses returned, Richie donned them, his eyes still screwed shut with whatever debris he’d gotten caught in them. “Fucking ow, this _hurts_. Where are we?”

“The kissing bridge,” Eddie leaned against it, surveying how ridiculous the two of them looked, drenched and sweaty and with more than a couple scrapes and cuts. “What the fuck were we doing back there?”

“Well, don’t say it like that.” Richie pried open one of his eyes, then the other. “It’s just—I got scared. Can you believe that?” He scoffed, then came over to lean on the bridge with Eddie. “I don’t even know what I was scared of.”

Eddie looked back at the embankment they had climbed up and saw how long and deep of a drop it was, the hungry maw of the Barrens still open wide. “I’m not really sure either. But there’s plenty to be scared of in a small town like this.”

“Sorry we didn’t end up finding the treehouse,” Richie shook his head. “Also sorry for pussying out and running. I don’t know what came over me.”

“I’m not mad. I think it might’ve been bad if you hadn’t told me to get out,” Eddie replied and traced over the carvings in the bridge with his finger.

“Ho ho, check this out.” Richie had already gotten distracted by the other carvings in the bridge. “‘VD + RQ’, that must have been Vicky Dolan and Randy Quill. Damn, they broke up right after they went to college.”

Eddie shrugged and let himself join Richie to get his mind off of the last slivers of fear. “Yeah, I’ve got ‘L + O’, I bet that was Lana and Owen H.”

“Oh, Owen H. You think he ever got over being called the pencil shavings guy?”

“I’d hate for that kind of nickname to follow me to California.”

Richie’s fingers seemed to stop short for a moment over an empty space in the bridge, feeling for something that wasn’t there. He shivered again and fell silent.

Eddie looked away but couldn’t help but ask a question. “Did you ever carve anything here?” He heard Richie laugh.

“No, not really,” His glasses caught the last of the sunlight. “I know I keep talking big game, but… you know, I was hanging out around the sewers and train tracks and trying not to get my nose busted open by bullies. I was kind of a loser growing up.” He sighed. “Still kind of am.”

“Come on, I already knew that.”

“Wow, rude.”

Eddie grinned sideways at Richie. “I’m kind of a loser too.” He glanced down at the carving underneath where his palm had landed, the word LOVERS carved shallowly by an uncertain hand. “Hey, you got a knife?”

“It’s kind of a crappy keychain one, but here you go.” Richie tossed it at Eddie, who flipped it out and carved an S on top of the V.

“To the Losers.” Eddie said, brushing away the debris.

Richie grinned back. “To the Losers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning notes:
> 
> Brief internalized homophobia – Eddie and Richie both shy away from touching each other during the diner scene—Eddie because he feels like people are staring at them and Richie briefly hesitates.
> 
> Horror elements – Eddie and Richie feel It’s presence in the woods and run away after the paragraph starting with “No, no, nothing like that.” You can skip past it and begin again at “It was only by the time they had scrambled up the steep bank to the bridge that the two of them realized they were holding hands.”
> 
> Hey y’all! I promised I wasn’t going to abandon this fic. This is the first new chapter without any content from old chapters supplementing it AT ALL so this was a little bit of a challenge to write (among other things like finals haha). This closing moment was a brief and stunning burst of inspiration that I had while trying to reference the R + E, which will come around some other time in the fic. Anyways, Merry Christmas Eve and Happy Hanukkah! Promise I’ll have more soon!


	11. Beverly Marsh and Bill Denbrough Drive Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: promise i’ll have more soon!
> 
> also me: you’re a filthy goddamn liar
> 
> Trigger warnings: internalized homophobia, mentions of abuse.

“This is all you packed?” Bev asked disbelievingly.

“I don’t know, I figured this would be pretty good.” Bill adjusted the backpack on his shoulder. “I mean, it’s not like we’re living down there or anything, we’re just visiting.”

“Yes, until _after_ the Fourth of July and possibly longer. Whatever,” Bev waved her hand at Bill to pack his bag among the rest in the back of the car. “We should get on the road sooner rather than later.”

“Do you want me to drive at all?”

“Bill, you’re lovely, and if you drive, you will get both of us killed.” She glanced back at Bill’s apartment and saw Audra running down the stairs waving frantically. “And plus, your girlfriend needs you.” Bev sidled into the front seat and buckled in, then turned on the air conditioning for good measure. As she adjusted the back mirror, she watched Bill half-jog back up to Audra, whose coppery hair had come loose of the braid she had been tying. The last time Bev had seen Audra, they looked about the same: short orange hair, skinny teenagers who were introduced to each other by a common friend. But Bev was always aware that there was a distinct difference to the two of them. Perhaps a lack of abuse, she rationalized to herself, but there was something deeper that she couldn’t quite identify. She watched Audra pushing her hair out of her face, watched how it haloed her features and fell to her shoulders in great big waves—

Bev stopped looking and listened instead.

“Babe, you nearly forgot your phone!” Audra’s voice was full of affection as she continued, “How would you call me all the way in Maine without it?”

“I’d find a way. You know I would.” They kissed. “Whether it was payphones or having to pester Mike for an hour on his landline, you’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“I’ll be bored to death without you here. I’ll just lay around all summer till you come back and give me that bike ride you promised.”

Bill laughed; a familiar sound that used to make Bev’s heart skip a beat. Now it just made her feel fond of him. “We’ll ride wherever you want, darling.” The old-fashioned nickname made Bev laugh a little herself, and she cranked the window down.

“You planning on coming anytime soon?” She asked. Bill nodded, and pressed a kiss to Audra’s forehead, who scrunched her eyes tight.

“I’ll miss you,” Bill said and tucked her into a hug.

“I’ll miss you more,” Audra replied. Bev felt a strange pang in her heart, a feeling that was becoming all too familiar these days. She turned around in her seat and waited for Bill to get in the car.

* * *

It was going to be about a three-day drive back to their old hometown and within the first hour, Bill had convinced Bev to let him drive if she got tired, fiddled with (and fixed) Bev’s busted radio, and then promptly fallen asleep. He was in the middle of talking about one of his novels he was working on and drifted off mid-sentence, so Bev contented herself with half driving, half watching the trees fly past them.

Bill shifted in his seat and yawned. “Uh…What was I saying? I totally forgot.”

“I don’t know. You passed out like four hours ago.” Bev turned down the classical music that was droning on the radio.

“Shit. Audra was right, I really do need to take it easy.” Bill stretched. “I spent last night basically scribbling down notes until four in the morning. Being unemployed is like that, I guess.”

Bev stole a glance at Bill, who was looking peacefully out the window, his chin propped up on his hand. “I thought you were working with that other author? What was his name… Sheldon?”

“Not anymore.” There wasn’t a hint of sadness in his voice. “He said he’s been dealing with some alcohol issues and…well, you know how my dad was after we moved here. I talked with Mr. Sheldon for what must have been hours and at the end of it, he decided he was going to rehab. So, once he’s out, our deal’s still on. For the time being, your Denbrough’s relying on the charity of his very nice girlfriend. And the money Mr. Sheldon gave me before he went off.”

“It still weirds me out that you and Audra live together now.”

“Well, we have been dating for four years. But yeah, it’s a little strange to not be with my parents. I think they both wanted me out of the house and still worry about me leaving them considering… yeah. Obviously, they shelled out the money for the cellphone.” Bill peeked in the glove compartment where he’d left it. “No missed calls. But hey, how are you managing this road trip? From the way you work, it always sounded like you were really busy.”

“Yeah, I called out of work and they basically just said I deserve it. I pretty much never take vacations. I just feel obligated to help other women who are dealing with stuff, so I can’t really imagine what I would do if I wasn’t a domestic abuse counsellor. You know, considering everything.”

Both of them were well aware of the parental issues they had—the sudden death of Bill’s younger brother and the arrest of one Al Marsh were the catalyzing reason for both of them moving out of their hometown. But it was too early in the trip for them to even think about what going back to their hometown meant for those wounds.

Bill, as always, seemed to understand these kinds of things instinctually and shifted to another topic instead. “So, last time we talked on the phone, you told me you were trying to get back into composing music.”

“Yeah, I am. The keyboard’s set up in my apartment.”

“Got any new stuff?”

Bev scoffed. “Mostly corny breakup songs and teen angst bullshit, except I’m an adult now, so it’s adult angst bullshit, which is worse.”

Bill patted her on the shoulder, somehow managing to be completely genuine despite the action. “Darryl was a jerk, man. It wasn’t fair how he treated you.”

“Starting to think I’m a little bit cursed. First Carson, then Josh, and now Darryl.” Bev kept her eyes on the road now, not liking the burning sensation behind her eyes. Even though Bill had tried to keep the conversation light, her stupid trauma had to surface again when she least wanted it to. She reminded herself that her trauma wasn’t idiotic, just something she had to deal with, but she still kept her gaze away from Bill.

“Hey, that’s not true. Those guys are the problem, not you. And you’re gonna meet the right guy someday.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a nice and good person. I’m a loveless bitch in all my relationships.”

Bill reached over again and put his hand over hers. “Don’t say that about yourself, Bev. You’re a great person. You’re a fantastic person. You’re brave and smart and empathetic, which is more than I can say for the idiots you dated. You’ve got a huge heart. Look at what you do for a living! And I mean, who sat through my first two years of speech therapy?”

“…Me.”

“Yeah, and who sent me a bunch of ‘feel-good’ jams after I got dumped in junior year?”

“Me.”

“And who has Mike always said has the biggest heart out of the four of us?”

“He says me, but I think it’s him.”

“Well, you both are kind people.” He patted her hand and let go of it. “You do a lot of amazing stuff for a lot of people. You were the first person Bennie came out to! People trust you a lot.”

“_Women_ trust me a lot.” Bev snorted. “I don’t know, I’ve always just felt more attached to women than guys. Except for you and Mike, I guess. Probably my whole life I’ve only ever enjoyed being around, what, like five men? The rest are garbage.” She shook her head. “I think that’s probably why they think I’m so cold. I don’t really show emotion to them. I’ve only really considered dating you or Mike, but Mike’s gay.”

“Yeah, and we almost dated once and that didn’t work out.”

“Oh, yeah.” Bev smiled, a little sheepishly. “That was weird. _Definitely_ weird.”

“Why did you end up dating those other guys then?” Bill asked.

Bev drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. The conversation was heading in a direction that was dangerous territory, _again_, and watching the white lines of the road disappear underneath the cars ahead of her was not cutting it. Bill wasn’t letting go of the topic either, though.

“I don’t know.”

“You really don’t?” His gentle and persistent line of questioning was one of those good-natured things about Bill that both irritated and endeared him to her.

“Kind of a heavy topic for a drive.”

“You don’t have to tell me now if you’re not feeling up to—!"

“I think I’m a lesbian?”

Bev winced at how quiet Bill suddenly turned—had expected yelling or denial, a knee-jerk reflex to any big revelation she had. The silence had become so huge that it was as if a third passenger had made its way into the car.

“Okay.”

Bev could feel her lip beginning to tremble, so she bit it down and reached for her cigarette pack in the cup holder.

“You don’t have to do that. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Bill repeated this even as Bev felt a hot tear escaping her eye.

“I just don’t really understand why I don’t feel anything around guys. I thought I just was traumatized or whatever, and maybe I am really broken or something, because I only feel that other women could really understand me and—and love me.” She willed herself to stop crying, and she did. But her face was still burning. “And that I could only really see myself in a future with a guy who was like… a friend. But I could see myself having a wife. I don’t know, maybe my mom dying made me gay or something.”

“I don’t know if that’s how it works.” Bill sounded genuinely confused at Bev’s sort of joke, which made her laugh, a sound that surprised herself.

“No, I don’t think so.” She shook her head to clear the air a little bit, and already, she felt a little lighter for having said something she hadn’t admitted to anyone.

Bill absentmindedly swiped his hair out of his eyes. “Thank you for telling me. It’s uh…I don’t think it’s really gonna change our relationship at all. Gosh, Bennie came out and she was really scared, but we got used to it and I still love her loads. Same goes for you.”

“Damn, I feel really stupid for feeling so torn up about it.” She sighed. “I guess I’m more just nervous about… looking at women differently now? It was easier when I was hiding it but now that I’m aware of it, I just feel kind of creepy for looking at women at all.”

“That’s not creepy. Promise. I mean, I thought Audra was so beautiful the first time I saw her, I just gawked at her and she found it kind of sweet. So if anyone—even a girl—tries to give you shit about that, I’ll… well, I don’t know, I wouldn’t beat them up. But I would talk to them about how nice and gentle you are. And how you wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Bill thought for a moment. “Jesus, I sound like I’m describing a horse.”

Bev really burst out into laughter this time and Bill joined her. “Thanks, Billy. I really needed to talk to someone who would take it well.”

“No problem.” Bill grinned and settled back into his seat. “Think we should pull off to a gas station and get some snacks? I’ll pay.”

“You’d better pay,” Bev said, shooting him a wry grin. “What kind of gentleman makes the lady pay?”

“How would you deal with that if you’re dating a girl?”

“I think we would split the check. Equality, right?”

The two of them kept chatting all the way to I-80 E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning notes:
> 
> Internalized homophobia: Bev comes out as a lesbian in this chapter, but before that, she looks at Audra and shies away from looking at her in fear of being predatory. Bev also talks about feeling like the “predatory lesbian” stereotype after she comes out to Bill.
> 
> Mentions of abuse: Bev mentions her abuse/trauma throughout the car ride, though there are no graphic discussions of it.  
\---  
YES bev is a lesbian YES Stephen King forgot to write that in the books :)  
Also I hope I did alright with Bev's coming out! I'm not a lesbian so I tried to touch on some more sapphic-specific concerns with coming out. Another chapter with no Richie and Eddie, but I still care about the other Losers so they deserve to be here and this scene is framing some of the other scenes later on. Like with other chapters, I slipped another Stephen King book reference in because he likes to be self-referential and I think it's funny.


End file.
